


the inescapable risk of intimacy

by esstiel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Coping Mechanisms, Cullen's Personal Quest spoilers, Drabbles turned Cohesive Narrative, Escapism, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hair Pulling Kink, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Mild Gore, Minor Original Character(s), Minor canon divergence, Rimming, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, allusions to major depression, ambiguous timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esstiel/pseuds/esstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Were Dorian back home, they would fuck a few times to get whatever it is building between them out of their systems then go back to their regularly scheduled lives. They would most likely never speak again unless required to by a formal setting, and both parties would be expected to keep their deviant activities a secret.</p><p>But they aren’t in Tevinter, and what’s building between them isn’t sexual desire, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

To Dorian, the concept of ‘true love’ is simply a fairy tale, something believed in by the unwashed masses, grasping for some sort of meaning to their life besides being crushed in the cogs of Tevinter life. Love is something to avoid, a hindrance, something to be used against you by someone trying to bring you down. Usually used by the person who holds your affection.

Thus, something to avoid at all costs.

Sex is different. It’s carnal, primal; a physical need met with the help of another consenting party. No feelings, no strings. Involving feelings--especially considering his particularly masculine interests--only led to pain and so he quickly and firmly shut the door to that path, never once looking back, knowing that so long as he lived in Tevinter, there was no point in even trying.

Attachment to people is weakness, he tells himself as he watches from bed as his latest partner pull on his trousers and boots, draping his top in the crook of his arm and leaving without a backward glance.

The words spoken in lust are lies, he repeats in his head as his lover lavishes him with kisses and whispered praise, worshiping every inch of his skin, tracing the contours of his body with his tongue and fingers. _You’re beautiful,_ he says, _You’re perfection. You’re all I’ve ever wanted._

This is the way life must be, he whispers into the dark room, skin still slick with sweat. His entire room smells like sex, the distinct scent of semen. The bed is still warm from another body, already gone, already forgotten.

Hope is pointless, a voice whispers in the back of his mind as the door to Alexius’s study closes behind him for the last time.

 

======

 

Dorian hums to himself as he lounges in his seat, legs crossed, the copy of _A Theory on Elemental Symbiosis_ that he had borrowed from Trevelyan (without her knowledge) held in one hand, the other toying idly with his mustache. The evening sun illuminates his alcove in the library, bathing everything in a rich orange. There’s a chill in the air but it’s nothing a warming spell can’t cure.

He’s completely at ease.

Well, a false pretense of ease, but that’s entirely besides the point. It’s important to keep up appearances of nonchalance despite the fact that it’s been quite possibly the second most stressful and life-threatening two weeks of his life. Time magic, cultists, Alexius, closing the breach, _a living breathing magister of old turned darkspawn_ , a fucking _dragon_ , 10 days traveling through the snow and mountains and cold.

There’s something that the Andrastians in the south said… Maker’s breath? Yes, that’s it, though it doesn’t seem be enough. Perhaps ‘Maker’s sagging and withered tit’. Ah, yes, that’s better. The train of thought is enough to make Dorian smile, shifting his book to catch more of the slowly waning sunlight.

Dorian catches a flash of dark red and black in his peripheral and looks up.

The commander stands at the entrance to his little hideaway, hands resting on the pommel of his blade. His feet betray his calm demeanour as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. He’s nervous about something.

Dorian sits up in his seat and marks his book before setting it on top of a stack of encyclopedias he’s been using as a side table. “Commander,” he greets with a nod.

“Lord Pavus,” Cullen responds.

“Oh, I am no lord,” Dorian says with a small chuckle, “that title belongs to my father. I am nothing but an indecently handsome Vint pariah. Dorian will suffice.” A smirk curls the corners of his lips and he lets his eyes trail down Cullen’s form for just a moment before meeting his eyes. It’s second nature, being effortlessly flirty, and the blush that rises to the commander’s cheeks is absolutely delightful.

Cullen rubs at the back of his neck and glances away. “Ah… Dorian, then.” He clears his throat then pauses, looking lost for words for a moment. The silence stretches until Dorian can take it no more.

“Is there something you needed, or did you come simply to gaze upon my visage?” His tone is playful, but really, he would like to return to his book while there’s still sunlight before he’s forced to read by candle. He hates reading by candle.

“Ah, y-yes.” The prompt seems to clear Cullen’s mental fog and he looks grateful for the help, cheeks reddening again though Dorian thinks its more from embarrassment. “I wanted to personally thank you for everything you’ve done. With the mages at Redcliffe, the time magic…” He trails off and rolls his shoulders, face twisting uncomfortably. “The way I spoke to you in Haven at the war table was unacceptable and I--”

Dorian waves his hand with a sardonic smile. “No worries. I’ve been treated far worse and you did little more than mildly annoy me. It’s fine.”

“Are you--”

“Yes, Commander, I’m quite positive. Now,” Dorian takes up his book again in one hand, making a shooing motion with the other as he returns to his position before the interruption. “If that was all you needed, I’m sure you have soldiers to yell at and reports to scribble on. Don’t waste any more of your precious time on me.” And then he buries his face into his book, bringing an end to the conversation.

 

======

 

It’s unseasonably warm in the mountains today and Dorian takes full advantage. He puts the often unoccupied chess area in the garden to good use, sprawling in one of the seats. An empty wine glass dangles from his fingers, the bottle half full on the chessboard beside his propped feet. He’s been lounging like that for the better part of the afternoon, soaking in the warmth of the sun like a house cat. Well, it’s not really warm, but in comparison to frigid winds and snow it’s practically summer.  

A shadow falls over Dorian’s face, blocking the sun. “Excuse me, I’m trying to absorb that sunlight you’re blocking,” he drawls without bothering to open his eyes, waving his wine glass in the general direction of where he thinks the person may be standing. Possibly.

“I apologize,” replies a familiar voice and Dorian cracks open an eye to find Cullen between him and delicious warmth. He’s lost the cloak and most of his armor, clad only in his usual breeches, shirt, and boots. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat. Fresh from the training yard, then. The disheveled and unkempt look is a good one for Cullen, and Dorian takes a moment to appreciate it.

“You’re still blocking my light,” Dorian grouses with a pout, letting out a content sigh as Cullen laughs under his breath and moves out of the way, taking the empty seat across from him. “Do you need something, Commander?”

“Cullen.”

“Cullen, then.” Dorian sits up and reaches for the wine bottle, pouring himself a generous glass. He tilts the bottle towards Cullen in offering but he waves it away, so Dorian shrugs and puts it on the ground beside his chair, lowering his feet to the ground. Saying his name is… nice. The way it pushes the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the back of his teeth. How it curls. Hm, he must be drunker than he thought he was, for his thoughts to be derailed so easily. Dorian lifts his glass to his lips and takes a drink, watching Cullen over the rim of the glass.

Cullen seems pleased by Dorian calling him by name. Dorian makes a mental note to do so sparingly, like using sweets as a reward for good behavior.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Dorian asks again, setting his glass down on the chessboard.

“I had hoped to find someone to play a game of chess with before I returned to my duties, and I saw you here, and, well…” Cullen’s smile is self-deprecating, like he’s already assumed Dorian would turn down the offer and is fully prepared. But Dorian has nothing better to do, and it’s been ages since he’s played against anyone with any intelligence. Why not pass the time with a board game?

“I hope you’re not expecting an easy win simply because of my current inebriation,” Dorian quips, moving his glass off the board to the ground next to the wine bottle. “Alcohol does little more than enhance my mental prowess.” He most certainly does _not_ sway as he sits back up no matter what anyone says, and Cullen’s smile morphs into one of amusement for some other reason than Dorian’s blatant drunkenness.

“Of course it does, Dorian,” Cullen says as he digs the chess pieces out of the small box attached to the bottom of the table.

 

======

 

Dorian has made a nest of books in Cullen’s office back behind his desk, hoping that Trevelyan will leave for the Fallow Mire without him when she’s unable to locate him in his usual haunts. He doesn’t want to go there, not even in the slightest. And while he does think that finding the captured soldiers is a great cause, he would rather not be there in person. It’s a mire. Wet, soggy, filled with skeletons and the _plague_ , if the reports are correct.

He’ll stay right here in Skyhold with his books, thank you very much.

Dorian’s plan works spectacularly, a full three hours so far without being found and forced onto a horse.

Well, spectacularly until Cullen comes back to his office.

The main door swings open, doorway filled with Cullen’s broad shoulders and tall frame, a stack of papers in hand. Grey eyes meet brown, both wide with surprise. Well, Dorian’s are surely surprised, though he really has no reason to be--it is Cullen’s office, of course he’d come in here. But Cullen, he seems… pleased to see him there, a tidbit that Dorian tucks away into the back of his mind for later examination.

“What a lovely surprise,” Dorian says, hiding his shock and slight annoyance at being found out behind a bit of levity.

“Are you... hiding behind my desk?” Cullen asks, voice barely masking his amusement at seeing Dorian huddled next to a pile of books on his floor. Truth be told, Dorian can see how it would look funny. The infamous Tevinter mage skulking behind the desk of the commander of the Inquisition, holding a book to his chest like a shield, what a scandal!

“Correction: I am hiding from our dearest Lady Inquisitor, and just so happen to be doing so behind your desk.” Cullen accepts this without question, though doesn’t bother to hide his low laugh as he closes the door behind him and sets the papers on his desk. Dorian shifts on the floor, crossing his legs, and waits to see if Cullen’s going to kick him out. It’s likely, considering Dorian set this all up without his permission. He only hopes Trevelyan has already left for the Mire.

Cullen sits at his desk, shouldering off his fur cloak to lay over the back of his chair. He pulls the stack of what must be reports closer and picks up the first page, not saying a word in protest to Dorian’s presence.

 

======

 

“I heard your meeting in Redcliffe didn’t go as planned,” Cullen says, watching Dorian out of the corner of his eye as they walk the battlements. Dorian and the Inquisitor had arrived back at Skyhold two days ago, and while she promised not to tell anyone anything they didn’t need to know, that still meant telling people more than he’d care for.

“That’s quite an understatement.”  Dorian shrugs, using nonchalance to hide just how brittle and sore he is after the meeting with his father. Since returning, he’s holed himself up in his bedchamber with every bottle of wine he could sneak off with undetected, drinking away the pain of a wound reopened. The giant fur mantle on his shoulders shifts with his shrug, ticking the back of his neck. All he’d done was complain about how damnably cold it is in the south, and Cullen had thrown his big fuzzy cloak over his shoulders with a ‘ _Think nothing of it_ ’ that was horribly chivalrous and had made Dorian’s stomach twist. His skin tingles where the cloak brushes against it; he breathes in the distinct scent of slightly damp fur, metal polish, and something earthy that seems decidedly Cullen. The smell calms him a little, like a balm on a fresh burn, as does Cullen’s presence itself. He tugs the fur closer to his chin, shivering at the realization.

“If you would like someone to talk to about it…”

“Perhaps I will take you up on that offer, but not today.” Dorian knows the smile he offers is abysmal at best and lets it disappear as quickly as it appears.

Dorian stops and walks to the edge of the battlement, staring out into the snow capped mountains. The wind is bitter and sharp, but refreshing, drying tears that he didn't realize were collecting at the corners of his eyes. Cullen comes to stand next to him, their shoulders touching. A sense of security, strength. It’s enough to sooth the roiling emotions in his heart, a moment of respite from the pain, a breath of fresh clean air after breathing nothing but poison for days.

 

======

 

Dorian knows where this is going. He’s not blind to the fact that Cullen visits him almost once a day, and that he stopped making transparent excuses for his visits weeks ago. He sees the way the commander looks at him, the fond smiles.

He knows, but he isn't sure how to react.

Were Dorian back home, they would fuck a few times to get whatever it is building between them out of their systems then go back to their regularly scheduled lives. They would most likely never speak again unless required to by a formal setting, and both parties would be expected to keep their deviant activities a secret.

But they aren’t in Tevinter, and what’s building between them isn’t sexual desire, not really.

It’s softer than that, more vulnerable. It’s early morning breakfast together in Cullen’s office because Dorian knows if he doesn’t bring him food he won’t eat at all. It’s afternoons sitting together in the library, Dorian reading while Cullen writes to his sister, the silence between them warm and comfortable. It’s late nights searching each other out when they can’t sleep, talking about everything and nothing into the early morning until they're greeted by the sun. It’s Dorian holding Cullen’s head in his lap, rubbing circles into his temples to try to help with his migraines after working too long. It’s Cullen wiping away Dorian’s tears when he finally talks about his family, pressing their foreheads together and adamantly whispering praise and encouragement, _You’re so strong, so brave. I’m lucky to know someone as wonderful as you._

This is something he’s never experienced, a level of intimacy so outside his realm of expertise that instead of taking the lead, he lets Cullen set the pace, waits to see exactly what the other man will do and how far he’s willing to take this.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how many chapters this will be. Probably two. May take me a while to get the second part done, I have a lot of things on my plate and use all my spare time to write this thing. 
> 
> Comments make me worry less about how bad my writing is. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ esstiel


	2. Chapter 2

  The thing about Cullen that surprises Dorian the most is how little he worries. About how people perceive whatever it is going on between them, that is. He worries plenty enough about literally everything else going on in their collective lives--Corypheus, troops, assassins, Red Templars and their lyrium--but what the people in the keep think about him spending his free time with Dorian? Not even given a passing thought.

It’s absolutely baffling, going against every rule and stricture ingrained in Dorian’s mind. There’s no voice in Cullen’s head telling him to hide his shame when they stroll the courtyard together, no voice hissing that they’re abominations, going against the Maker’s will when they lounge in Dorian’s rooms, the mage reading while Cullen dozes with his head in his lap.

And with each passing day Dorian’s internal hatred and fear fades, the voice quieting to a whisper, then to nothing more than a wisp.

 

======

 

Dorian smells like sand. He can’t really describe what the smell is, exactly, but its decidedly _sandy_ and _deserty_ and he’s pretty sure it’s in his ears and nose and his _pants_ and all he wants is a nice hot bath to wash the Hissing Wastes out of every crevice of his body. He can feel little grains rubbing against his thighs with every step he takes and the fact that he’s probably already chafing makes him want to cry.

Well, not actual tears, that’s a bit too melodramatic. But the feeling is there.

Once his horse is handed off to a stable boy he makes a beeline for his quarters, body and mind singular in their joint desire for a bath. Dorian wants a giant tub of hot water to sooth his muscles, a giant bottle of chilled wine to sooth his mind, and to _never be in the desert again_.

He knows the last wish is completely out of his control, but the first two are completely doable, and he fully plans on doing.

There’s a delightfully large brass tub in his room that he pilfered from the gifts the Orlesians were practically throwing at Skyhold, all ornate swirls and lines, lion paws plated in gold for the feet. He keeps it hidden well enough (Cullen is the only one who really visits him in his quarters so he’s the only one who knows where it is), and the fact that he doesn’t need the servants to draw water for him makes it much easier to keep his prize.

All it takes is some ice to fill the tub, some fire to melt the ice and warm the water…

Within five minutes of riding into the hold Dorian’s slowly lowering himself into the tub, hissing with the pleasure and almost-pain of sinking into water nearly hot enough to scald. The heat loosens muscles he didn’t even realize were tight. Dirt and dust floats to the top of the water but he can’t even begin to care because he thinks his limbs are turning to mush and everything is just so _warm_ and _relaxed_ and even his thoughts are losing coherency, bleeding into one another as he simply exists in a state of complete bliss.

A random thought surfaces, and he idly wonders if this is what it feels like to be in the womb, floating warm and safe.

Dorian breaks his reverie and sighs. Best get the actual cleaning underway before he turns into a giant prune. He sits up and reaches for the soaps beside the tub, choosing at random, and dumps a generous amount of soap scented with cinnamon oil into the water. The scent reminds him of the better parts of home, what few ‘better’ parts there are.

He’s begun the arduous task of actually scrubbing the dirt and grime off his skin and out of his hair when he hears his door creak.

Instinct makes him whip his head around, magic flaring in his chest; he relaxes and releases his hold when he sees Cullen’s head poking into the room, pink dusting his cheeks. There’s nothing more endearing to Dorian than Cullen’s bashfulness.

“I’d heard word of your return and hoped to see you before being called to the war table, but since you’re busy--”

“I’m hardly _busy,_ Commander, simply sloughing off the rest of the Wastes,” Dorian interrupts. He leans over the edge of the tub, crossing his arms under his chin. Water drips onto the carpet but he can’t be bothered to care. He can just get another one from their growing supply of decorations.

Indecision flits across Cullen’s face, and Dorian watches with a tilted head, waiting for him to make the decision they both already know he’ll make.

Cullen steps into his room and shuts the door behind him.

At first he stays near the door, standing stiff and awkward, but Dorian’s inviting smile and quirk of a brow is enough to break through his sheepishness and bring him closer. Cullen grabs a chair and sits beside the tub, bulky armor clinking as he shifts.

This is a development in their relationship. Sure, they’ve spent countless hours in each others company, but the main difference between those times and _this_ time is Dorian’s distinct lack of clothing. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with it--he is taking a bath, after all--it still adds that slight sexual edge that their previous interactions have always lacked.

Dorian understands this, assumes Cullen understands this, but Dorian is adamant in his decision to let Cullen take the reigns. When it comes to matters of the bedchamber (or other daring locales), Dorian is king. But matters involving the heart? He may as well be a crying newborn babe, unable to do more than cry and shit itself. Now, that isn’t to say Cullen has much more experience in these matters, but Dorian can’t shake the fear that curls in his gut at the idea of pushing this along faster. The fear of scaring Cullen away, of ruining this thing that hangs between them before it’s truly begun.

It’s difficult to be confident in the face of the unknown.

Dorian leans back in the tub, sinking low in the water and closing his eyes. “Fair warning, I’ll be hiding behind your desk again if Elena plans another excursion to the Hissing Wastes,” he says as he carefully reheats the water in the tub.

“Was it that bad?” Dorian can hear Cullen’s amused smile in the tone of his voice and feels his lips tugging into a smile in response.

“Chasing down the Venatori wasn’t too bad,” Dorian admits, letting his arms float on the waters surface, fingers splayed. “We took care of that situation within the first week. But then Elena found a dwarven tomb and nothing would dissuade her from searching for all five of the things. A month stomping through sand dunes, Cullen--a month! Varric and I were plotting how to escape her grasp two weeks in. By the time we found the last one I was sure we had descended into madness.” Dorian’s retelling is dramatic, yes, but Cullen can get the proper report from the Inquisitor later when they and the other advisors convene.

“Sometimes I hate that I don’t leave the hold often,” Cullen says, armor clinking. Dorian assumes he’s shifting around again but doesn’t open his eyes to check. “But I’ll take cold and snow over sand any day.”

“I, my dear Commander, am not afforded that pleasure,” Dorian replies, “as it seems Elena is determined to bring me along on every single mission that involves inhospitable locations.”

Cullen hums in agreement, and Dorian hears the dull clatter of metal hitting the rug. “What are you doing back there?” he asks and Cullen responds by carefully and gently running his bare fingers through Dorian’s wet hair.

His touch is like fire, waves of heat rolling through his body from the points of contact on his scalp. Dorian bites his lip, swallowing a low moan as Cullen’s fingers slowly massage, fingernails gently scratching as he works. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come, jaw hanging slack. How could something so simple--something he’s done himself innumerable times--feel so sinful and arousing when done by another person? Dorian grasps of the edge of the tub, knuckles going white with the force of his grip.

He’s half hard already but doesn’t care about pretenses and respectability when Cullen’s fingers are doing things so arousing. Besides, the suds and dirt floating on the surface of the water is enough to give him a modicum of decency.

Cullen grabs a fistful of hair with one hand and _tugs_ hard enough to bare Dorian’s throat and he can’t stop the sharp intake of breath from hissing between his teeth, his dick twitching against his stomach. What’s left of his coherent thought wonders if Cullen planned this from the beginning, if his shyness when he first entered was a facade to hide his nefarious plot to turn Dorian into a mewling mess.

Suddenly something cool is poured over top his head and Cullen’s hands are at work again, scrubbing in slow circles. Fresh suds trickle down Dorian’s face and down the back of his neck. Dorian swallows down the lump in his throat and says, “I can wash myself, you know” in a tone that he hopes seems dry. The self-satisfied way in which Cullen replies with “I’m sure you can” is enough to tell Dorian he’s failed spectacularly at hiding the desire in his voice.

He _wants_ in a way that he hasn’t in a long time, _needs_ in a way that makes his toes curl and his stomach twist. It’s all he can do to resist the urge to twist around and capture Cullen’s lips in a kiss, and somehow he just knows that that’s why Cullen’s doing this, to try to force his hand.

Cullen’s turned this into a damn game of chess, and nearly has Dorian in checkmate.

There’s a knock at the door, and time stops. Cullen’s fingers still. Neither man breathes.

The knock comes again, more insistent. Dorian sighs and calls out, “I’m rather busy at the moment, perhaps you could come back later.”

“Can’t, ser,” a voice replies from the outside of the door. “The commander’s to report to the war table post haste, Cassandra’s orders.”

Cullen makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “I’ll be there,” he says, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“My orders were to escort you myself, ser.”

Dorian can’t help but laugh, turning with a smirk to face Cullen. “Cassandra knows you well.” The commander rolls his eyes and grabs his gauntlets off the floor as he stands with a long-suffering sigh.

“She will be the death of me,” he mutters under his breath but he flashes a smile at Dorian, eyes hooded as he glances at Dorian’s now obvious erection. “Enjoy your bath.”

And then he’s walking out of the room, casting one last heated glance over his shoulder before slipping out the door, leaving Dorian to contemplate just how and when Cullen got so good at playing the game. This was clearly a planned moment, but Dorian can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at being outmaneuvered. Instead, he feels pride swell in his chest.

Then he feels his dick bobbing in the water and turns his attention to relieving himself. And to rinsing the soap out of his hair. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated and loved.
> 
> Follow me @ esstiel on tumblr for fic snippets and information on when I'm writing.
> 
> note addition: im currently dealing with the loss of a pet ive had half my life so the next chapter may be a while depending on how well i cope


	3. Chapter 3

The wine is spiced with cinnamon.

The familiar scent calls forth memory. It takes Dorian back to that time weeks ago (had it really been that long?), to warm water and roaming fingers. He can almost feel phantom touches on his scalp, tousling hair styled with care for the occasion. A shiver runs up Dorian’s spine and he takes a long drink from his glass to hide his reaction, hoping the heat in his cheeks doesn’t flood his skin with _too_ much pink.

After all, Halamshiral is hardly the place for such reminiscing.

Dorian leans against the railing separating the ballroom floor from the gallery. His posture oozes confidence and security while on the inside he feels like a lion in a room full of snakes. He knows how to be a predator like them, how to participate in the game that nobility play at like it’s second nature. He’s confident that, given time, he could have enough influence and clout to shape Orlesian politics, even with Tevinter blood flowing in his veins. But as he is now, with no contacts, no information, no intimate understanding of the undercurrents of power?

It’d be like sailing a ship on unfamiliar seas with no map, into a hurricane.

And so he stands around and looks pretty, drinking wine as it’s offered to him by the servants, and pretends that he doesn’t feel useless. That’s not to say that Dorian has any doubt that Elena will ferret out the truth and make the right decisions, not at all. He fully trusts the Inquisitor’s abilities and instincts. It’s just… this is the kind of environment he was raised in, full of intrigue and assassination and betrayal. Its frustrating how little he can do without causing more harm than good.

Dorian shuts down that line of thought before it makes him morose, and lets his eyes wander. He finds Leliana deep in conversation with the Inquisitor, Josephine chastising her sister, Vivienne surrounded by acquaintances, and Cullen…

Oh _my._

If Dorian is a lion in a room full of snakes, then that makes Cullen a fawn, newborn and shaky legged and completely defenseless. Well, not literally shaky legged--Cullen has too much iron will for that. But there’s something about his wide eyed stares that reminds Dorian of a startled deer, too scared to run away from approaching doom... Even if approaching doom happens to wear voluminous dresses in garish colors, tunics and coats and cloaks slathered with gold embroidery and gems.

Armies and swords, apostates and demons? Cullen has no problem facing each one with courage and strength. Flirts trying to get into his pants?

Dorian hides a snort of laughter in his wine glass as Cullen visibly starts, swinging around to question a man beside him whose hand is still near his bottom. He squashes the jealousy that flares in his chest like an inferno. He of all people knows the men and women ogling the commander are doing so because of his rank in the Inquisition. The fact that Cullen is devilishly attractive is really just icing on the cake for nobility looking to expand their connections.

Besides, its not as if Dorian has any _real_ claim to Cullen’s person. One sexually charged moment and months of flirting don’t suddenly make Cullen his. Not yet, at least. And at the pace they’re going, it may never happen. All this buildup for nothing.

That train of thought is enough to dampen his mood. He drains the rest of the wine from his glass, leaves it with a passing servant, and heads for one of the balconies for a bit of fresh air.

 

======

 

Dorian’s chest heaves as he labors for breath, the staff in his hands slick with perspiration. The sun beats down on him from its perch at high noon, chasing away the memory of the mountains usual chill. It’s unseasonably hot but Dorian’s grateful for the sudden heat wave. It lessens the chance of him freezing to death when his sweat dries. The rest of the keep doesn’t seem to enjoy it nearly as much as he does. Soldiers and mages lounge in the few shaded areas available when not put through their paces, instead of crowding the training yard.

Not that Dorian cares all that much about what the troops are doing. He only notices because he knows Cullen will, and the things Cullen notices are becoming more important to him than they should be. Plus, it gives Dorian more room to practice. Less worrying about someone getting in the way of a lightning bolt and more blowing up practice dummies makes practice time far more productive.

Dorian sighs and relaxes his pose, stabbing the blade of his staff into the dirt to hold it upright while he stretches tense muscles. A breeze picks up, helping dry the sweat collecting on his face, but not doing much for the sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. He undoes his top, loosening straps and buckles enough to let it slide down his chest and gather at his hips. Ah, much better. His head tips back and smiles, eyes closed, enjoying the cooling caress of the wind against his bare skin.

It’s nice to let instinct take over, to put his mind on autopilot and let his muscle memory take care of the rest. Honestly, he’s been spending too much time thinking and over analyzing every little thing--specifically, every little thing involving the commander--and his brain can definitely use this break.

“Working hard?”

Dorian doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. He knows that voice far too well to ever mistake it for anyone elses. _Speak of the devil_. “Done with your duties so soon, Commander?” he asks, pushing sweaty fringe from his forehead.

Cullen makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Hardly, but this heat makes it impossible to get anything done.”

“Now now, the heat isn’t _that_ bad,” Dorian chides, opening one eye to peer at Cullen, lips twisting into a smile. His stomach twists and flutters at the sight of the man but he shows none of it on his face.

Cullen quirks a brow. “Its not ‘that bad’, and yet here you are, half undressed.” A bead of sweat runs from Dorian’s neck and down his chest, and he can feel Cullen’s eyes follow it before meeting his.

“As if you aren’t enjoying the view,” Dorian replies, turning to face Cullen fully.

The statement is enough to make the tips of Cullen’s ears flush red but he doesn’t fidget and look away, doesn’t stammer and blush. No, instead Cullen smirks, eyes hooded, voice pitched low for Dorian’s ears alone. “Its a view I will never grow tired of.”

The words hang in the air between them. Dorian’s heart pounds in his chest, heartbeat loud in his ears.

Even with all the flirting, the touching, the company, the laughter, the tears… This is the first _verbal_ admission that there’s something between them beyond extremely close friendship. It makes Dorian’s skin tingle at the implication. Before, their interactions could have been considered friendly, actions that Dorian took out of context and read into, but not anymore. It’s what Dorian’s been waiting for.

A million responses sit on the tip of his tongue, some funny, some serious, some so overly sexual that Cullen would probably spontaneously combust if he heard them. And there Cullen stands, waiting to hear whichever one stumbles through Dorian’s lips.

So instead of speaking, Dorian simply smiles before turning and walking away, shooting one last heated glance over his shoulder at the commander before disappearing into the garden.

 

======

 

 

Dorian sits atop the battlements overlooking the training yard, watching Cullen below as he directs the troops through their exercises. An onlooker would assume he is watching the commander with fondness, and in all honesty a small part of him is. But the bigger part is waiting for something more and--Ah, there it is again.

Cullen stands with his hands on the pommel of his blade, overseeing two swordsmen sparring. And, after a few seconds, he turns his head into the fur of his mantle and takes a deep breath. The tips of his ears and the back of his neck looks red, though from this height it may just be a trick of the light.

The smile that curls Dorian’s lips is absolutely diabolical, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know it. Cullen thinks he understands seduction. He thinks that some warm gazing and even warmer words is all there is to this game, that coming on strong then backing off without any real resolution would be enough to drive Dorian wild and force him to make the first move. Granted, it _is_ driving Dorian crazy, but he’s too good at this to break so easily. He knows how to bide his time. He knows how to use scent and sound and taste to arouse.

Oil infused with cinnamon rubbed through Cullen’s mantle, on his pauldrons, in his helmet. Cinnamon sticks hiding in the back of a drawer of his desk. Magicking the sound of splashing bath water to play randomly in the middle of the night under his bed while he sleeps, in his tent when he’s outside the hold with the soldiers overnight. Bribing the kitchen staff to add trace amounts of ground cinnamon to Cullen’s teas and ciders. Making sure to bathe with that soap every other day ever since.

A bit overkill? Yes, but if Dorian is too subtle, it’ll go completely unnoticed by the other man and just be a waste of time.

Besides, Dorian wants to get this song and dance over with. This is what he’s used to, the part of intimacy that he’s more than well versed in and he’s more than ready to dive in headfirst.

So when Elena drags him out to the Storm Coast to help kill a dragon and he comes down with the flu? He’s ready to beat Corypheus to the punch and set the whole damn world on fire.

Dorian’s snotty and snively and feverish and _leaking from every hole_ and he sort of wants to die because Maker’s asshole this is awful and his room is _so hot_ but he’s not allowed to take off the blankets or put out the fire in the hearth until he’s sweat out the fever but he’s _not sweating_ and how can you sweat out a fever with no sweat? Somewhere in the back of his mind it makes sense but that doesn’t stop him from complaining.

And while the sickness is awful in its own right, its the isolation and boredom that kills. The Inquisition isn’t put on hold just because he’s sick; the machine must continue to run with or without him. The end of the world won’t wait while he lays in bed. For three days he sees no one besides the apothecary with his potions, mixing and mashing things together to help combat some of his symptoms. All they do is make him sneeze and cough, leave a nasty taste in his mouth, though he’s _thankfully_ no longer contagious, meaning he can finally have visitors.

He doesn’t have many at first, or at least if he does he’s not awake to see them. Most of Dorian’s time in the beginning is spent sleeping, his body trying to recover from the ravages of communicable disease. He thinks he remembers seeing Elena and Solas checking on his progress, maybe recalls Varric with a rough draft of his next romance novel, hoping that Dorian was coherent enough to read it over for him. He hadn’t been at the time, but he makes sure to keep that little nugget of information tucked away in the back of his mind for later. Dorian doesn’t want to pass up the chance to read more of Varric’s self-published erotica. Or pass up the chance to threaten Cassandra with potential spoilers.

It’s the fourth day free of quarantine, at least he thinks its the fourth day, that Dorian awakens to someone softly humming to the right of his bed. The song sounds like a lullaby and while he’s curious as to who it could be, he lets the song wash over him in his post-sleep haze, drifting in and out of consciousness. Dorian floats there, mind full of fog, calm in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.

Almost too soon the song ends and Dorian opens his eyes, blinking his eyes until they focus. “That,” he coughs, throat dry, “was lovely,” he says, turning his head to see who it was beside his bed.

And it’s Cullen sitting in the armchair left by Varric, papers scattered in his lap. He’s missing his armor again, wearing dark loose-fitting clothing, looking completely at ease in Dorian’s room. He looks up when Dorian speaks and smiles, setting his papers on the bedside table. Cullen grabs the cup of water sitting there and offers it to Dorian, who takes it with a grateful nod and greedily drinks to sooth his dry throat.

“Did I wake you?” Cullen asks, and his voice is pitched low like Dorian might break if he gets too loud, and while a part of him finds that annoying--he is _not_ made of glass--another part finds that endearing, that Cullen would be so careful to keep Dorian from feeling any discomfort while unwell.

Dorian stretches his arms over his head and yawns. “Yes, but it’s no problem. Can’t sleep yet another day away, now can I?” He smiles and Cullen returns it, eyes crinkling in the corners. His heart flutters.

Swallowing, he looks for something to talk about. He spots the papers on the bedside table. “Work?”

Cullen nods and grimaces. Even that’s attractive in its own way and Dorian hates how sick he is right now because he’s lost all ability to be cunning. “Everyone is vying for pieces of that dragon killed on the Storm Coast, and I’ve been blessed with the duty of deciding who gets what.”

Dorian huffs a small laugh. “So thats a stack of petitions begging for your favor and permission to play with dragon bones?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

They both smile again and the conversation stops. Honey brown eyes stare into grey; the air in the room seems to thicken with tension, and suddenly Dorian realizes Cullen is waiting. Waiting to see what he does, how he reacts to Cullen being in the room while he slept, whether or not he’s okay with it or thinks its too much too soon or--

_He’s just as unsure as I am_.

Were he in better health, Dorian would know exactly what to do, what to say, to drive Cullen wild and have him all over him in a heartbeat, all want and need and sweat and sex.

But this has never been about that. Yes, that’s something they clearly both want, but its been about _more_ than that. And that more is absolutely terrifying, true, but in this state Dorian doesn’t really care about repercussions. He’s too congested and bone-weary to care about the pain and humiliation of rejection. So he does what he feels he should do, and holds his hand out.

Cullen looks down at the hand, then back at Dorian, eyes questioning. Hopeful.

Dorian flexes his fingers and looks pointedly at Cullen’s empty hand.

Tentatively, Cullen takes it, fingers rough and calloused from years of labor and sword training. Their fingers slot together slowly, as if Cullen is afraid Dorian will change his mind at the last second and pull away. But he doesn’t and their fingers link, and its like something has finally slid into place in Dorian’s chest.

He sighs with contentment and gives Cullen’s hand a squeeze. “So, _Cullen_ ,” he watches Cullen blush as he uses his name instead of his title and grins, “tell me about your dragon carcass petitioners.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while. 
> 
> Comments make my heart soar.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @ esstiel.


	4. Chapter 4

“What will you do when this is over?”

The question is asked calmly, deliberately, and completely catches Dorian off guard. His head snaps up from his study of the chessboard, staring at Cullen who regards him quietly, face solemn. “When this is over?” Dorian repeats, trying to give himself some time to collect his now scattered thoughts.

“Yes.” Cullen nods slowly. “When this is over.” He nudges one of his rooks forward, a sloppy move that will put him in check in three turns. “I’ve heard that you plan on returning to Tevinter.”

Dorian opens his mouth and takes a breath to speak, but nothing come out and he lets his mouth shut. It’s not so much that he hasn’t thought on it a great deal--truth be told, its consumed his thoughts when he wasn’t busy working on projects for the Inquisitor--but its more that his future goals have been blurred by emotion and desire and need. Had anyone asked him months ago what his plans were, he would have regaled them with his grandiose ideas to change his homeland for the better, plans to turn Tevinter back into a nation to be proud of, one that could interact with the rest of the continent without causing another war.

But to ask him now? When the mere sight of the Commander is enough to make his heart skip a beat, when he falls asleep wondering how it will feel to have Cullen’s perpetual stubble rubbing against his thighs and wakens harder than he’s been since he was in his teens, when the thought of leaving, of fulfilling his dreams of reforming the Tevinter empire, fills him with panic?

Cullen still awaits his response, to both the asked question and the unasked question that they both know hangs between them: _How long will this last between us?_ And he honestly doesn’t know what to respond with, too unsure of one path and too scared to fully commit to the other. But he supposes his lack of a response is a response in itself for now, and leaves it at that.

The match finishes in silence. Dorian’s not sure which one of them threw the game.

 

======

 

 

There is something to be said for all the stories calling the Fade a horrible place. Sure, in dreams it isn’t too bad, but in person? In the flesh the air is thick, cloying, clinging to the skin and catching in the lungs; every steps seems insubstantial, like the ground (or what can be considered ground) will give way like sand at any moment and let the endless ocean sweep everything away into the nothingness.

But it’s not the physical aspects of the void that stick.

Old wounds reopened so soon after scabbing over, old fears, old agonies and terrors and disappointments, all brought back to the surface to scramble Dorian’s brain and leave him weak in the knees. All of them that had fallen into the Fade after Elena were affected in similar fashion as the nightmare demon attempted to break their minds, but it’s only Dorian who remains effected after their march back to Skyhold from Adamant. That isn’t to say that everyone else is exuding sunshine and shitting rainbows--quite the opposite. The mood in the hold is somber as they all process the way the world has changed after the exile of the Grey Wardens, the deaths of so many troops and, in Varric’s case, the loss of a close friend.

They all stick to their quarters or their work areas. Dorian spends almost all of his time either in his bed tossing and turning from nightmares, in the library, or in the tavern trying to drink himself drunk enough to sleep through the night in peace.

But no matter how much he drinks he can’t make the images of his father drawing on the floor in blood, of him commanding his slaves to take hold of him, of being tied like a fucking _hog for slaughter_. The words his father said to him echo in the far corners of his mind, _You are a disgrace, you are a broken and useless tool, but I will_ fix you.

Even now the words hurt.

Dorian finds solace in his books. No tomes of research and history, but simple romance and drama and comedy; stories to laugh and weep with, stories that take him to lands unknown, fantasy worlds where who and what he is doesn’t matter. Pure escapism, and he’s well aware of it. One doesn’t spend the majority of their life surrounded by books without the occasional escape from the pressures and pains of real life. But sometimes coping mechanisms are needed, like now.

Interruptions are few and far between. Besides the odd bird flying by too close and startling him and the servant sent daily to remind him to eat by someone they can’t name who he’s _positive_ is Cullen, he’s left alone. As the days turn into weeks, however, he finds himself growing… antsy. He jitters his knee when he’s not paying attention, picks at loose threads in his clothing until they’re frayed at the edges. There’s something missing that he needs but no matter how much he thinks on it--or ignores it--the itch under his skin won’t leave him.

To ease his nerves, Dorian turns to taking walks through the hold. At first the walks are just through the great hall, using studying the murals on the wall as an excuse to stretch his legs. Then they take him through the garden, sometimes stopping long enough to exchange a few words with Elena to see how she’s doing. After a few days he just lets his legs take him where they will, taking the opportunity to blank his mind and concentrate only on the act of walking.

Its on one of these walks that finds Dorian wandering the battlements in the early evening hours. The wind has that cool mountain crispness that fills his lungs with vigor and vitality; Dorian can’t help but take a moment to take his fill, breathing long and deep. It’s like taking the first sip of water after being lost in the desert for days, satisfying and yet…

Not enough.

So Dorian lets his feet carry him onward along the battlements, past guards on duty, diplomats gossiping, and messengers carrying missives and secrets. He doesn’t really pay attention to who he passes or where he’s going until he finds himself standing before one of the three doors leading into Cullen’s office and quarters.

It’s been almost a month since their last game of chess, that last conversation still left unfinished between them. And it’s not as if Dorian has been avoiding Cullen, not really. The march on Adamant came maybe two days after their last meeting, and both of them had put duty--Cullen as commander, Dorian as a member of Elena’s core attack group--before their own personal needs. But apparently personal needs were troubling him enough subconsciously to bring him here, even while his conscious mind was busy warring with itself over his own self worth and general existence, and now he’s here. At Cullen’s door.

But not actually entering.

After all, what is he going to say when he walks in? _Sorry I was being a total ass a good month or so ago before we washed the walls of Adamant fortress with the blood of friends and foes alike, spat in the face of the Chantry and walked in the Fade in the flesh, and essentially kicked the Grey Wardens out of the country!_ Or, _Would you like to take a moment to be selfish with me and talk about our feelings when there are more important things to worry about than whether or not your desk can sustain both of our weight?_ Or maybe he could try, _Remember that time you asked me a question I couldn’t answer? I still don’t have the answer! Isn’t that fascinating?_ Better yet, why not just burst through the door and declare, _I’m a dysfunctional mess who is incapable of having intimate relationships with people because a lifetime of believing I’m a monster doesn’t disappear just bec--_

Dorian hears the distinct sound of glass breaking on the other side of the door. A confrontation?

Instinct kicks in, cutting off his mental raving and pushing all his personal problems right out the window. Magic pools in his free hand as he whips open the door and barges in, fully prepared to set someone or something on fire. Instead he jumps to the side, dodging a vial thrown with force at the wall beside the door. Blue liquid splashes on the wall, splashes him, and he instantly knows it’s lyrium when it comes into contact with his skin.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting _that_.” The quip leaves his lips almost by rote as his eyes scan the room, searching for danger. But all he finds is Cullen standing at his desk, looking absolutely ashamed of himself.

“Dorian! I didn’t hear you enter, I didn’t expect--I didn’t mean to…” Cullen sighs and runs one hand through his hair, leaning heavily on his desk with the other. “Please forgive my momentary outburst.” He looks exhausted, haggard. Dorian dispels the magic gathering in his hand and shuts the door behind him, sidestepping the mess on the floor.

“No need to apologise,” Dorian replies with a shrug, forcing what he hopes is a reassuring smile on his face despite the worry he feels coiling in the pit of his stomach. Its not the throwing things that has him worrying, everyone’s allowed to have an angry moment every once in a while, but rather Cullen’s appearance in general. Before the Inquisition marched on Adamant he looked healthy, cheeks full and eyes bright. But now he looks pale, drawn, cheekbones sharper than usual in a face starting to go a little gaunt. There’s a tremor to his voice, in the hand still in his hair. Now that he thinks about it though, perhaps the change has been happening slowly, and he’s only now noticing how bad it is since he hasn’t seen Cullen for some time. But what could have happened to bring this about?

Dorian doesn’t go in for the obvious question though, instead taking slow steps around the room towards Cullen, as if approaching a terrified deer. “If I may ask,” he starts, running a hand along one of the bookshelves against the wall, “what exactly did the vial say to make you so angry? Did it insult your hair?”

The statement makes Cullen’s huff a small laugh under his breath as he shakes his head, so easily distracted from his embarrassment by Dorian’s wit. He sighs and sinks into his chair. “Its… I don’t know where to start.” Cullen’s shoulders slump and he sags forward, burying his face in his hands.

Maker, but he looks wretched. Dorian walks around his desk and crouches down, balancing himself with a hand on Cullen’s knee. “In most cases, people start from the beginning,” he prompts.

Cullen takes in a deep, shaking breath and releases it, shoulders slumping further though it doesn’t seem physically possible; it’s like he’s trying to sink into his armor and disappear. Dorian’s never seen Cullen look this dispodent. Whatever it is that’s going on is clearly a Big Thing, and Dorian is more than willing to wait for Cullen to find the strength to tell him.

The words come in a whisper, so soft that Dorian almost misses it. Had he not been so close he wouldn’t have even known Cullen said a word.

“I stopped taking lyrium.”

Ah. Dorian’s mind races, digging up all the information he knows about southern Templars and their dependency on lyrium. “Withdrawal, then?”

Cullen nods, finally taking his face out of his hands to meet Dorian’s concerned gaze. His jaw is clenched, the muscles in his cheeks twitching as he grits his teeth through pain Dorian can’t even imagine. His hands still shake. “I haven’t taken it since I joined the Inquisition.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “So long?”

Another nod. Suddenly Cullen is standing, shoving his chair back with enough force that it tips and clatters to the floor behind him; Dorian sits back on his heels and lets his hands fall to his sides as Cullen walks to the arrowslit window. He leans against it, staring out into the empty air, chest heaving.

Watching warily, Dorian rises to his feet, though he keeps his distance. Cullen may startle like a deer but his outbursts are much fiercer. He’s a volatile cocktail of self-loathing, anger, frustration, and pain, and though Dorian knows that Cullen wouldn’t do anything to hurt him on purpose, he still remains cautious.

Cullen continues to stare out the window, using his hands to keep himself from slumping against the wall. “I’m sure you know by now that I was at Kinloch Hold when it fell,” he says, pitched low as if he’s talking to himself. “It was taken over by abominations. The templars, no, my _friends_ were slaughtered.” He pauses, but clearly is not looking for any sort of response. And even if he was, Dorian is unsure if he would say anything. There’s something about this moment that seems cathartic for the commander, being able to say the words he’s kept inside for so long. It’s something that Dorian can easily relate to, and so he waits for the words to flow again, the trickle that will no doubt turn into a flood.

“I was tortured, they tried to break my mind, and I--” Cullen’s chuckle is wry, his face twisted into a grimace. “How can you be the same person after that? But still, I wanted to serve.

“They sent me to Kirkwall, only for the city to descend into madness because of the Knight Commander’s fear of mages and all things magic. Innocents died in the streets, and blood filled the canals. Can you understand why I want nothing to do with that life?” Cullen turns and looks at Dorian, eyes pleading for understanding, begging for reassurance.

“I, of all people, completely and fully understand wanting to distance yourself from something so negative,” Dorian says, stepping closer until he’s within arms length of the other man. His hand itches to reach out and grab Cullen’s but he refrains.

“But how can I put my desires above the needs of the Inquisition? How can I give my all to the Chantry but not to this?” Cullen’s voice rises and he pushes past Dorian, pacing back and forth on the rug stretching across the room. “I _refuse_ to have given more to the Chantry than I do the Inquisition, Dorian. I thought to gain some control over my life, unshackle the collar around my neck, but… how many lives depend on our success? How can I swear myself to a cause and not be at my best every step of the way? How can I lead an army when my mind burns and my body aches and sleep is little more than one nightmare after another?”

Dorian doesn’t know what to say. What words could ease Cullen’s conscience? “Cullen, I--”

Cullen stops and swings his fist into the bookshelf; the wood rattles, a book slips and falls to the floor. “I should be taking it!” he snarls, pounding his fist again. The violence drains from his body like water down a drain, shoulders slumping as he turns and leans his back against the shelf, head tilted back, eyes closed. He breathes heavily through his nose, clearly trying to calm himself.

“Who cares about ‘should’, though?” The question pops into Dorian’s mind and, since he can’t think of anything else worthwhile to say, he runs with it. “You ‘should’ do this, you ‘should’ do that. Who cares about any of that?” He steps closer, close enough to press his palm against Cullen’s chest, right where his heart would be if armor wasn’t in the way. Cullen’s eyes open and he looks down at the hand on his chest before meeting Dorian’s stare.“The only thing that should matter is what you _want_. Here, _right here_ , in this overly large Ferelden bleeding heart of yours.”

Dorian moves closer, so close that their breath mingles between them with each exhale; his hand on Cullen’s chest now pins him against the bookshelf. He continues to stare straight into Cullen’s eyes, hoping that it helps drive the point home.

“You’ve given yourself completely to the causes you’ve sworn to, and that’s commendable, truly it is. But this is _not_ your Chantry. The Inquisition does not ask for your mind, body, and soul for all of eternity and I highly doubt anyone plans on trying to make that claim. There will be a life for you once this is over, Cullen. You won’t be our dear Commander forever. When that time comes, do you want to look back with regret and pain for doing what you _should have done_ or will you look back and be proud for doing what you _wanted to do_?”

The question rings out in the office, and is met with startled silence. Cullen’s eyes are so wide, so wonderstruck that Dorian wonders if anyone in Cullen’s life has ever told him this, told him that its okay to put his own needs and desires first for once in his damn life, that is he is a human and not just a tool to be used by the powers that be.

Cullen inhales sharply then shudders, letting out the breath slowly. His grip on Dorian’s hips tightens--when had he put his hands there?--and he pulls him closer until their hips press together, one hand coming to rest on the small of Dorian’s back. The pressure is warm and oh so pleasant, but its more than just physical pleasure; its being completely and totally in Cullen’s space, trusted with both his past and with his present, let in to see him at his most vulnerable and not being pushed away. It’s another door open and inviting where Dorian is used to finding them firmly shut in his face.

Dorian swallows past the lump forming in his throat and speaks, his voice a whisper. “No matter what you choose, amatus, I will support you. You will not be alone in this.”

Cullen’s head dips forward. Their lips press together, slow and sweet and filled with such emotion that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. So much in such a simple gesture he’s shared with countless others, but this time it’s more. It’s always been more.

Oh sweet, sweet benediction.

 

 ======

 

 

Dorian lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Candlelight flickers, shadows dance along the walls. His fingers slowly rub at his lips, remembering all that they had done today and all that they will surely do in the future.

But even with all of that, the words he spoke to Cullen repeat in his head, over and over.

 _Do you want to look back with regret and pain for doing what you_ should have done _or will you look back and be proud for doing what you_ wanted to do _?_

What does Dorian truly want?

He turns over in his bed, snuffs the candles with a tendril of magic.

The nightmares return, but instead of dreaming of blood and deadly rituals and imposing father figures, he dreams of making the wrong choice and regretting it for the rest of his life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, and I apologize. I had a lot of things I've been focusing on finish and it was just nice to take some time and take a break from everything. Took a long time just to get my brain back into the swing of things and write some dialogue that didn't sound stilted and horrifying. bleep bloop.
> 
> Some of the dialogue used is from Cullen's personal quest, but I think that's pretty obvious. :3
> 
> I thought this would only be four chapters, but I don't even know how long this is going to be anymore. 
> 
> Comments are always loved. Follow me on tumblr @ esstiel.


	5. Chapter 5

Time, as it is so wont to do, passes.

Months fly by in what seems like an instant. So much time away from Skyhold blends the days and weeks into a wash of forest and desert alike. Dorian finds himself away from the hold more often than not; the growing Venatori presence demands it. They crop up like weeds on every acre of land between Nevarra and the Amarantine Ocean, and he is one of the two people at Skyhold who has been trained in Tevinter fighting styles, giving him a tactical edge that few others hold. The war against Corypheus is coming to a head, moves and countermoves pushing towards the inevitable. Plans continue to unfold before them that need thwarted, and the Venatori presence rises exponentially to combat their meddling. At times Dorian wonders if they’re doing any good, if any of this petty skirmishing on the outskirts of the Orlesian empire, but then he puts the blade of his staff through a cultists throat, helps save a group of refugees heading for civilization, and remembers that every battle counts, every move counts. Its gruesome and bloody work, but its worthwhile when a woman he’s never met looks him in the eye and thanks him. Him, the dreaded Tevinter mage. Everyone knows he’s with the Inquisition--even stable boys in backwater villages have eyed him askance--and even so, there are some who see him for who he is and not where he’s from.

It’s … he can’t quite describe the feeling that swells in his chest but he holds it close in the night as he huddles in his tent, a flame to fight away the ever present darkness in his heart that tells him he’s worthless and broken, a tool to be discarded.

_I am still useful,_ is his mantra on those nights that are the worst, the nights where his mind is washed away in the currents of things long past, things he wish he could forget but knows he will fight for the rest of his life, _I can change things for the better_.

And he wraps himself in those words like a blanket, wishing he was back in Skyhold with Cullen’s arms to warm him, to ground him, to bring everything back into focus.

But Dorian doesn’t have the Commander to sooth the wrinkle between his brows that seems a permanent fixture now, so he presses onward. Onward through the countryside, chasing after anything the Venatori seem to have interest in. He fills the silence with little quips about their party, questions Blackwall’s intelligence, even goes so far ask to ask Solas if he’s ever tried wearing a wig. The last is enough to make Elena stop in her tracks and guffaw, laughing hard enough that she has to lean against a rock else fall on her face; the look on Solas’s face is stuck between outrage and amusement, and Blackwall hides his laugh behind a cough. It’s enough to ease the tension in their shoulders, clear the air of the near constant coppery tang of spilled blood.

Until a missive arrives from Leliana requesting their return.

That is all that Elena will say about what’s in the letter, and since she burned the message soon after receiving it, it’s all the information Dorian has to go on as they press hard back to Ferelden. Whatever it was in that note was enough to make the woman’s eyes harden in a way he hasn’t seen since Adamant, and its clear by the brutal pace she sets that it’s Serious Business. Not once do they stop to make camp. Instead they sleep on their mounts in shifts, changing out horses at every Inquisition outpost they pass.

The lack of information leaves Dorian to wonder and speculate and, in dramatic fashion, he jumps to the worst conclusions. That Skyhold is no more, razed, a pile of ash and smoke and rubble. That, in their extended absence, Corypheus let his dragon have its way with the hold and its people, have its way with _Cullen_ , when theres so much still left unsaid, so much left to _do_ \--

The thought is enough to make his hands shake, dread weighing him down in his saddle. So, as he does, he turns to reading to escape from his fears, losing himself in romantic purple prose.

And time, as it is so wont to do, continues to pass.

And they continue to ride.

After weeks in the saddle, Skyhold comes into view, whole and complete and quite possibly in better repair than it’d been when they left. All the built up tension and fear and worry drains away, leaving Dorian feeling boneless; his white knuckled grip on the pommel is the only thing that keeps him toppling sideways from his horse in sheer relief. The horn announcing their return sounds and they ride through the gates. They are greeted by a group, ready to take their horses and their packs. Usually the advisors are there as well, usually Cullen is there to help Dorian from his horse, so easy with his affection and obvious favor in public, but instead they all stand on the stairs leading to the main hall.

Dorian meets Cullen’s eyes. Even from this far he can see the tightness at their corners, the furrow to his brows that reveals the headache that’s surely pounding in his skull. A smile softens Cullen’s features for a moment but then Elena is running up the steps two at a time to meet the advisors and soon they all hurry away into the main body of Skyhold.

The rest of the companions drop from their mounts and make their way to their own areas, and while Dorian wishes to do the same, he’s left in a bit of a predicament. See, he’s a fully capable rider, having been trained by some of the best horsemasters Tevinter had to offer back in the day, but the best horsemasters Tevinter had to offer never prepared him for a twelve-day nonstop ride. The bone-deep agony is enough to make him hesitate. Maybe he can just ride his horse all the way to his quarters and flop off the horse onto his bed. It wouldn’t eat too much in his room, he’s sure.Though, it’ll shit a little. Okay, it’ll shit a _lot_. He’s not prepared to stay in a room that smells like horse dung; he’ll leave that level of self-depreciation to Blackwall.

The process of getting off his horse isn’t an easy one, especially considering he can’t feel his feet and his skin is tingling with thousands of pinpricks, but make it off he does.

A runner waits for Dorian as he grabs a few of his things out of his pack, leaving the rest to one of the waiting stablehands. “A message, messere,” she says, offering the folded paper to him. “From the Commander.”

Dorian hums and takes the paper. A message, eh? He unfolds the paper, reads the words.

_My quarters are open, wait for me. Cullen._

Dorian's eyes wander to the stairs leading to Cullen's little tower and he shudders at the idea of even attempting to climb them. Not if he wants to keep his dignity intact. He can already see his legs giving out, sending him tumbling down the stairs.

"Do you have something for me to write with?" he asks, and the messenger pulls out a small quill and ink pot from her belt pack, holding the pot while he unstoppers it and wets the tip of the quill.

_Too many stairs. My door will be unlocked._

He blows on the ink to dry it quickly and hands it back to the messenger, who jogs off after the advisors to deliver it. That taken care of, he turns his attention to making it to his quarters in one piece.

Dorian’s not quite sure how he manages to get to his room without incident, but manage it he does. Once the door shuts behind him he makes quick work of his clothes, hissing in pain as the cloth finally separates from his skin, leaving imprints of hems and wrinkles in his thighs. He’s rubbed raw in places he hasn’t been in a long time, the skin dark red and angry. But its nothing that a few potions and salves can’t remedy, and sooner rather than later he is scrubbing the evidence of their travels from his skin. The bath is quick, not the usual luxurious soak he partakes in but Dorian would rather not risk falling asleep in the tub and turning to a prune. Once he's clean he looks himself over in his mirror, scratches at the scruffy beard he'd begun to grow on the road. He really should shave it off, clean up his mustache, but he's just too damn tired for that, and definitely too tired to shave the stubbly hair covering his chest.

Dorian has just enough energy to throw on a loose pair of trousers before falling into his bed, asleep before his head settles on his pillow.

 

======

 

 

The smell of food draws Dorian from his blessedly dreamless sleep, bread and meat and other savory things that makes his stomach growl. He groans and rolls over onto his back, stretching slowly, enjoying being able to move without agonizing pain. He pulls his shoulders back and sighs as bones crack and realign themselves, scratches idly at his chest before finally opening his eyes and turning his head.

Cullen stands at the sole table in his room, organizing plates of food. It soothes something within him he didn’t know needed soothing, and he takes his time unnoticed simply to watch. Dorian can hear glasses clinking and--is that a bottle of wine? “Dinner _and_ wine?” he asks, enjoying the way Cullen starts just a little before turning.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” Cullen replies, smiling with that half-smirk of his that’s both bashful and confident, that smile that’s one hundred percent pure Cullen Stanton Rutherford. “I thought that you would enjoy a proper meal after spending so much time on the road.” His eyes wander from Dorian’s face, taking in his languid posture, the chest hair thats grown in, the dark trail that disappears into the waistband of his trousers.

Dorian smiles. A proper meal, indeed.

He would usually shrink under the attention considering how bedraggled he must look in his unshaven state, but instead he makes a show of getting out of bed, sitting up and rolling his shoulders, his head, exposing the lines and contours of his upper body before rising to his feet. He doesn’t quite walk with his confident saunter--still a little saddle sore, even after his self care--but its a close approximation, enough to drag Cullen’s eyes down to his hips as he crosses the room.

And, as is his luck, the moment is ruined by his stomach growling again. Loudly.

The grin on Cullen’s face makes Dorian roll his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, but he can’t help but grin in return as he delicately sits at the table.

They eat and drink in companionable silence, though Dorian can’t seem to keep his eyes off the other man. He drinks him in, every wrinkle and freckle and curl of hair. It isn’t until now that he realizes just how much he’s missed his Commander during his time away from Skyhold, missed his rock. He is a rock that’s been cracked and fractured by so many, yes, but also a rock reforged by the fires of the Inquisition to become a better man.

A man that, in this quite, intimate moment, Dorian wants more than anything in the world. Cullen flushes under Dorian’s gaze, his ears turning a lovely shade of red but he’s staring at Dorian with a look in his eyes that makes his cock twitch with anticipation. Perhaps it’s his long absence that makes him impatient. Perhaps it’s that this whole affair has been, by his standards, chaste enough to please Andraste herself.

Dorian sets down his fork, pushes his plate away half-finished. Cullen frowns at the remaining food.

"Not hungry?" he asks with the slight incredulity of someone who’s seen how much Dorian usually eats in one sitting.

"Mm, not exactly." Dorian shifts in his seat (ignoring the way it makes his skin sting), crosses one leg over the other and leans back. It's the picture of easy confidence, because he _is_ confident. This _is_ the part of things he’s good at, after all. “I’m still hungry, but for a _proper meal_.” He clips the last two words, tilting his head and letting his eyes take in all of the ex-Templar before letting himself meet Cullen’s stare.

The desire he finds there almost takes his breath away, but there’s also contemplation there. Three heartbeats of silence, then Cullen blinks, decision clearly made.

“Perhaps I can help… _satisfy_ this hunger of yours,” Cullen replies as he stands, holding Dorian’s gaze as he backs up until he’s in the center of the room. That little smirk of his returns, all bashfulness long forgotten as he begins to remove his gauntlets, then his vambraces. He drops them to the floor, the clinking metal loud in the thick silence. He flicks off his cloak, the furred monstrosity pooling behind him. Never once does he break eye contact.

Dorian’s heart races, heat pooling in his groin; unbidden, he runs his thumb along his lower lip, shifting to ease some of the pressure on his hardening member. And Cullen continues to undress, taking his sweet time. Such a tease. Pauldrons and greaves join the rest of his armor on the floor, and he reaches for the buckles on his breastplate.

“Allow me to help,” Dorian murmurs.

He beckons for Cullen to step closer and the man obeys willingly, eyes hooded. Dorian doesn’t bother to stand, instead reaching from below to help Cullen out of his breastplate. Cullen wears black under his armor today, shirt loose but pants exquisitely tight and once the breastplate is off and discarded, Dorian leans forward to nuzzle his nose into Cullen’s stomach, breathing in that distinct scent of metal and and earth and wood that seems soaked into Cullen’s skin. He mouths at Cullen’s navel through his shirt, hands running along his chest and hips, lower to caress his thighs.

He can feel Cullen’s groan a split second before he hears it and grins with satisfaction. His mouth travels lower, nipping through the thicker cloth of his trousers at his hipbones, one hand kneading Cullen’s thigh right below the curve of his ass, the other sliding under his shirt and running up his flank, touch featherlight. Slowly, teasingly, he moves closer to the growing bulge in Cullen’s pants, close, so close, but never quite touching the twitching flesh underneath.

A hand slides through Dorian’s hair, from hairline to crown before tightening, pulling his head back. He can’t help but hiss but the sound is swallowed as Cullen leans forward and captures his mouth in a searing kiss. It's not a slow sensuous thing, nothing at all like their first. There's power in this one, all teeth and warring tongues and it sets Dorian's veins aflame with want, with _need._

Dorian palms Cullen's erection, giving him the contact he so clearly desires, and the other man breaks the kiss with a guttural moan. How long must it have been since Cullen's been touched in this way, by a hand other than his own? He’s sure it’s been quite a while--the darkness in his life before the Inquisition would have made it difficult to find a bed partner, he thinks. Leaning forward, he licks at Cullen’s hidden erection. The sounds it draws from the man, the way his thigh flexes under his hand is enough to prove him right. It takes so little to get a reaction! How repressed his Commander must be, how tender. Blood rushes to his groin at the thought of drawing out more of those little noises, the little whines and involuntary cries.

Oh, how strong Dorian’s desire to see such a composed man come undone.

The hand Cullen still has in his hair pushes his head further towards his crotch in impatience and Dorian chuckles, fingers making quick work of the buttons of Cullen’s pants.

But a thought makes him pause.

Dorian almost feels like he has too much of an advantage over Cullen, as someone who has bedded numerous men and learned twice as many tricks. Templars were meant to be pure in the eyes of the Maker, yes? Surely this included base carnal desire, which leaves Cullen at quite the disadvantage.

He pulls his head back, leans against the back of his chair, and meets no resistance from Cullen; his hand relax in his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. The tingles that run down his spine make him shudder but he fights through it and looks up at Cullen, whose brows are drawn together in confusion.

“Do let me know if I move too fast, dear Commander,” he says, fingers tickling the expanse of skin just beneath Cullen’s waistband. “I do not wish to overwhelm you. If you have any apprehension, do not hesitate to tell me.”

Cullen’s eyebrows shoot up, and that damned smirk makes another appearance. “I am no blushing virgin,” he says, adding, “No matter how much I may blush,” when Dorian quirks a brow.

Dorian hums, undoes the last of the buttons holding Cullen’s trousers closed. “Just wanted to be sure, is all,” he replies, though he is still skeptical. Sure, they are comfortable around each other, more comfortable than Dorian’s ever been with another person, but that does not directly translate to any sort of sexual prowess. Though, there was that time in the bath, what seems like a lifetime ago…

His incredulity must be plain on his face because Cullen’s rolling his eyes and taking Dorian’s chin in his hands. “Must I prove it to you?” His voice is low, amused, as he leans down to capture his lips in another kiss. This one is deep, slow but not without heat. Dorian hands tug Cullen’s pants down to mid-thigh, releasing his swollen cock, the head an angry red that demands to be touched.

And touch he does, hand taking hold of it at the base and drawing towards the head slowly.

Cullen breaks their kiss to groan open mouthed and Dorian takes the opportunity to swallow up his dick in the warmth of his mouth.

The noise Cullen makes is positively _obscene_ , and he moans Dorian’s name as he sets a relaxed pace. He takes time to lick and nip at Cullen’s balls, to tongue and suckle his head, one hand always at the base of his shaft, a safeguard should Cullen begin to lose control and thrust into his mouth. All the while his free hand is in his own trousers, gripping his erection and pumping in time with his ministrations.

Thread by thread Cullen begins to come apart, and Dorian relishes every second. Every bead of sweat, every flexed tendon in his neck, every freckle that stands in stark relief against the flush of Cullen’s skin. Dorian can tell he’s close by the way he breathes, his stomach muscles twitching and contracting, his balls tightening, but suddenly Cullen is pulling him off his cock, taking him by the forearms and lifting him to his feet.

“Not yet,” Cullen breathes, “not here.” His eyes are hazy and yet he’s still in control enough to guide Dorian to the bed, walking him backwards until the back of his knees hits the mattress and he falls, landing spread eagle on his back. Cullen’s hands explore the planes of Dorian’s chest and belly, every muscle and divot and smooth expanse of skin. Dorian squirms, making himself more comfortable, grinning all the while at the pure lust that clouds Cullen’s eyes. It didn’t take much at all to get the man to this point--he’s rather proud of himself.

A hand takes hold of one of his nipples, gives a sharp tug. Dorian can’t help but arch into the touch, hissing out a “ _Fasta vass”_ when the fingers are replaced with the warmth of Cullen’s mouth. His tongue sweeps and toys, teeth gently pulling, and through the pleasure Dorian wonders if perhaps his ex-Templar has just a little more experience than he’s assumed.

He runs his fingers through Cullen’s curls, cupping the back of his head. Cullen looks up from his task, takes note of Dorian’s slack jaw, and smiles.

“Not so smug now, hm?” He doesn’t wait for a response, turning his attention to kissing and licking every part of Dorian, starting from his collarbone and slowly working his way down his chest to his stomach, following the trail of dark hair to his waistband.

“I am not so easily subdued, Commander.” Cullen quirks a brow at the statement but makes no comment. Dorian’s voice is only a _little_ breathless, after all. He lifts his hips off the bed to make it easier for Cullen to pull his pants down, groaning in relief as _finally_ his dick is freed from its cloth prison. It lays heavily against his stomach, warm precome drips onto his skin. He expects Cullen to take him into his mouth, to suck him down greedily, but he doesn't.

No, he hooks his arms under Dorian's knees and lifts his hips up even higher, pulling him closer so his thighs rest on his shoulders, his ass cupped in Cullen's hands.

Cullen looks at him then, holding his stare as he lowers his head to lick at the tender skin below his sack.

Dorian can't help but gasp at the contact, at the lapping warmth, at the delightful press of tongue at lips and teeth. It's been so long, so achingly long, and it draws a thin whine from the back of his throat. Teeth nip at the insides of his thighs, fingers carefully caressing skin still red and sore from his ride, before returning to their work, moving lower inch by inch until Dorian can feel Cullen breathing against his hole.

(Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dorian is glad he he had the foresight to take a bath.)

The first touch to the sensitive skin of his entrance is like electricity; his body thrums with tension and and need. The gasp it rips from him seems to be what Cullen is waiting for. He goes about his work with gusto, every noise and groan and hiss and occasional Tevine curse seems to push Cullen farther, faster. He’s like a man given a feast after years of starvation, and it’s all Dorian can do to keep himself from unraveling in Cullen’s arms. He fists are balled up in the bedsheets, knuckles white, using the grip to stay in the here and now lest he fall off the edge into incoherency.

But he wants more, wants to be stretched and filled and fucked raw. He wants to be _claimed_ and all of this is well and nice but it’s not _enough_.

Dorian opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a reedy whine as Cullen pushes a finger into him. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum,_ ” he spits through grit teeth, bucking his hips weakly. “I am not--aah--” the finger twists, brushing his prostate, “--Not a-- _fuck_ \--”

Cullen hums as he kisses Dorian’s thighs, sucking at skin until its dark and bruising. “Were you saying something?” A second finger joins the first, and it burns _so good_ that Dorian loses his train of thought for a moment.

“Cocky bastard,” Dorian snarls before throwing his head back as Cullen’s fingers crook within him, searching. “I am not a patient man, Commander.”

He can feel Cullen chuckling against his skin and resists the urge to swat at the man. “Impatient? You? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Dorian makes an exasperated noise and begins to sit up, pulling his hips away from those wonderful fingers and that wonderfully cheeky mouth of his. Cullen lets his hips back down to the bed when he realizes what Dorian’s doing, though his hands still caress his thighs in a way that makes Dorian’s heart flip just a little.

“If you were trying to prove a point,” Dorian kisses at Cullen’s jaw, a hand slides between them to ghost fingertips along the head of Cullen’s penis, “then consider it proven.” He grazes his teeth along a tendon standing out in Cullen’s neck, bites it gently. “But if you aren’t fucking me into this bed in the next thirty seconds, Cullen, I will set you on fire.”

Cullen laughs at the declaration and captures Dorian's lips in another kiss. "Do you have any oil?"

Dorian snorts. "Have you known me to be a man who doesn't? Top drawer of the bed table."

Cullen pulls away and reached into the drawer, pulling out the first vial he finds. Dorian shakes his head. "No no, this one will burn, use the one in the plain looking jar."

Cullen frowns. "Why would you have one that burns?"

"For massages, of course! You have fifteen seconds, by the way."

He tries not to laugh at the slight panic that alights in Cullen's eyes--they both know he's just a little serious about the fire--as he rushes to grab the right container, rushes to liberally coat his dick. Dorian lets his legs fall open even wider, tilts his hips up to give the other man a better angle. Cullen presses his tip against Dorian’s entrance, one hand holding him steady while his other grabs Dorian’s hip in a bruising grip. Wrapping his arms around Cullen’s shoulders, Dorian pulls himself close, presses their foreheads together.

And slowly, carefully, Cullen breaches him. Dorian watches the way Cullen’s face shifts with each inch, his slack lips, the flutter of his eyelids, and Dorian knows Cullen is doing the same, relishing every expression. Cullen meets no resistance and yet still takes his time; Dorian’s patience wears thin. “Five seconds,” he breathes.

Cullen’s response is to drive the rest of the way into him with the snap of his hips, which does a good job of shutting him up. The hitch in Dorian's breath is masked by the sound of meeting flesh as he finally gets what he wants; his nails scratch at Cullen's shoulder blades, leaving hot lines of red in his skin. They stare into each others eyes as Dorian adjusts, and the prolonged eye contact is so _intimate_ , so _magnificent,_ and Cullen watches him with such reverence that he’s afraid to speak. Instead, he rolls his hips to spurn the other man to action.

“M-Maker, Dorian,” Cullen stutters, and Dorian tightens around Cullen’s member, rolls his hips again.

“Fuck me,” he commands, and Cullen does so with enthusiasm.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you have any idea how hard it is to write smut oH MY GOD but at least this fic has finally earned its explicit rating  
> i am dead rip me
> 
> comments are loved, follow me on tumblr @ esstiel


	6. Chapter 6

Its been a month and Dorian’s chest still constricts with fear every time Cullen rises from the bed after sex.

It’s usually that Cullen’s after a wash cloth to clean them off with, or a blanket to fend off the chill that comes with drying sweat, or even just to crack his back (because Cullen may not be old but he’s not as spry as he once was), but no matter the reason behind it, Dorian can’t help but think that _this_ is the time that Cullen leaves without a backward glance. _This_ is the time that he sneers at Dorian’s spent body on the bed, satisfied with his conquest. _This_ is the time that he is broken.

But that time never comes; Cullen curls around him like the lion he is, claiming Dorian as his own with arms and legs and occasionally teeth. Dorian spends his nights with his face buried in the crook of Cullen’s neck and wakes to his wild curls and occasional drool.

What they have is still tender, still laden with unspoken words. And while Dorian will most likely never silence the voice in his head that works so hard to ruin his happiness, he does his best to protect what they have from his own inner demons, shielding the delicate budding flower of what they are from the hurricane of his self-loathing.

 

======

 

 

Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn.

Dorian stops, looks out one of the many windows in Elena’s quarters, out at the mountains below them.

Step, step, step, turn.

Elena watches him pace from her bed. “They’re sure to be back soon,” she says, words she’s said so many times in the last three weeks that they’re past the point of ringing hollow.

The march from the Arbor Wilds back to Skyhold shouldn’t take three weeks, even accounting for those wounded in the fighting. He knows it, Elena knows it, everyone who had been in their party while exploring the Temple of Mythal knows it. Transported back to Skyhold by the Eluvian, they are left waiting for the return of their friends and companions with bated breath in a hold that’s far too quiet. Elena plans in the war room with Josephine and Leliana any time she isn’t with Dorian, burying her worries in plots and paperwork and diplomatic scheming. Varric sits in the main hall, staring into one of the fireplaces with the haunted look of a man who’s tired of losing friends.

And Dorian paces. In the halls, in his quarters, in Elena’s quarters, in the library, and more often that not on the western battlements. He’s well aware that the chance of him seeing the army on its approach is slim to none but that doesn’t stop him from braving the cold, doesn’t stop him from hoping, from praying to a god he’s all but lost faith in.

It’s selfish and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t pray to the Maker for the army, for the injured and the dead.

He prays for Cullen.

Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn.

The pressure of Elena’s hand on Dorian’s shoulder stops him mid-step; he didn’t notice her rise from the bed, too preoccupied with his thoughts.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the stone,” she says with the hint of a smile in her voice. She’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make him relax and in this moment he _loathes_ her for even making the attempt.

“Would you rather I be drinking?”

The question echos; the hand on his shoulder disappears.

Step, step, step, turn.

 

======

 

 

There was a time, when the Inquisition was still battered and bruised from Haven, when the medics worked from tents in the bailey, torn cloth haphazardly tacked to rod and wall both. Dorian has clear memory of those rotted and moth-ridden cots with their blankets that were little more than rag and dirt. On more than one occasion he found himself in those tents, though none of his injuries were ever bad enough to require more than a poultice or a quick healing.

But times have changed, as have their resources, and it shows.

Dorian stands in a clean stone room, tastefully decorated and warmed by a small brazier in the corner. The heavy wooden door is open, and he can see medics and healers in the other room, moving between the beds separated by curtains hanging from the ceiling. Herbs and potions line the wall, quick to hand and organized so precisely it appeases even Dorian’s need for order. There are other closed doors leading to more private rooms, used for serious injuries and diseases, or for the privacy of someone of higher standing.

Which is why he’s in one, standing off to the side to give one of the healers room as she changes Cullen’s bandages and dressing, finally allowed to visit after two days.

A part of Dorian wants to watch, to make sure the healer doesn’t do something stupid to endanger Cullen’s life--the Red Templar that tried to gut him did that well enough--but another part of him finds the idea of watching uncomfortable. It feels too intimate. He’s seen Cullen naked, seen him laugh, cry, terrorized by withdrawal throes; he’s seen him thrash in nightmare, euphoric after left spent and boneless. But seeing him helpless, bruised, battered, broken?

Dorian shifts his weight and looks anywhere but the dark red gauze being pulled out of Cullen’s belly, the blood that leaks down his sides to stain the bedding as the healer works quickly to stem the flow, repacking his wound with fresh dressing and medicine.

An inch closer and nothing would have been able to stop Cullen’s insides from--

Dorian bites the insides of his cheeks, bites hard until he tastes copper. There’s no point speculating on the past or worrying about something that’s already said and done.

Cullen is alive, and that’s all that matters.

The healer stands, her duties completed. Dorian really should take the time to learn her name since she’s the only one who is authorized to take care of Cullen, but pleasantries are for a time when he’s not being faced with Cullen’s mortality. She uses a towel to wipe blood from her hands, another to dab sweat from Cullen’s brow. There’s perspiration beading on her forehead as well but she ignores it, instead working on cleaning up.

Dorian doesn’t wait for her to finish her task. “How is he?” he asks, and he doesn’t even try to hide the worry coloring his words. Everyone in the hold is now well aware of his connection to the Commander, especially after the scene he caused when he was told the exact reason why Cullen was riding in the back of a supply cart unconscious when the army finally arrived.

“He’s through the worst of it, I think.” She sighs and presses a fist into her lower back. The business of keeping Cullen from bleeding to death adds lines to her already creased face, bags under the eyes from sleepless nights monitoring his condition. “Would be far better if we could simply heal him.”

That would explain why Cullen was transported to Skyhold in such a precarious condition, but what reason would they have to not use magic to heal the worst of his injury? Dorian brows furrow as he frowns, but she answers his question before he has time to ask it.

“Precaution just in case his blood came into direct contact with the red lyrium,” she says, and the panic must be clear on his face because she hurriedly continues with, “That’s not to say he’s in danger of becoming tainted, just that using magic to speed up the healing process could awaken even the smallest particles and force him to metabolize it, and I would hate to set him back when he’s done so well with his battle against addiction.”

So she knows about Cullen and his lyrium withdrawal. “Is his _situation_ with lyrium such common knowledge?” he asks, voice tight, hackles rising. Cullen wanted so badly for it to be kept a secret from all except those who had to know, and the idea of his secret being spread makes Dorian’s stomach turn.

“I’m the only one who knows,” she replies, unperturbed by neither the question nor his hard stare. After a pause she adds, “of the medics and healers, at least. I can’t speak for the rest of the keep.” She shrugs and heads for the door, tossing out a, “Would be difficult to treat him if I didn’t have a good idea of what’s going on with his body, after all,” over her shoulder with a quirk of her brow.

A valid statement, enough to sooth his displeasure. Dorian concedes the point with a small bow and the flourish of a hand. “I’m relieved to find the Commander in the care of such capable hands.”

The smile that blooms on the healers face makes her look ten years younger, dimples accentuating the curve of her lips. She glances at Cullen’s sleeping form, then back to Dorian. “As am I.”

It isn’t long before Dorian’s made himself a decent living space in Cullen’s room. A plush chair with matching footstool for reading and sleeping surrounded by books sits in one corner, while a small wash basin and mirror occupies another, along with his various styling and shaving tools. The healer--he learns her name is Theoren after a bit of snooping--helped him sneak them in, and is kind enough to not rat him out for essentially moving in. In fact, he spends much of his time conversing with the older woman.

It turns out she knew Cullen as a child in his home town of Honnleath. Theoren had been little more than a wise woman back then, helping with colds and fevers, setting the occasional broken bone, but she remembers the boy with ears far too big for his head and grand ideas of joining the templars. She regales Dorian with tales of his antics--the pranks he endured from his younger siblings, stick swordplay in the fields when his parents weren’t watching. He even learns that Cullen’s blushing used to be so much worse, going from the tips of his ears down to disappear into his shirt collar any time a pretty girl looked his way or a handsome boy complimented him.

Dorian soaks up every story, so enthralled by Cullen’s childhood. It’s so different from his own in every way and a small part of him is envious, though he quickly subdues those thoughts before they can spread.

When not in Theoren’s company he occupies himself with other things, such as reading to Cullen. He knows the Commander can’t hear him (or maybe he can, who knows for sure) yet he does it all the same, teaching the other man about the fundamentals of Necromancy and just why the author of this book is a complete buffoon who should have his fingers cut off lest he try to pen another volume. And when he tires of reading he simply spends his time wiping Cullen’s brow, brushing his hair from his forehead, playing with his hands.

Truth be told, Dorian spends an excessive amount of his time playing with Cullen’s hands. He’s all but memorized the veins and tendons in his wrists, the lines of his palms, the calluses on his joints and fingertips. There’s something amazing about hands that are so rough and worn and yet can be so gentle, a testament to the man who owns them.

Maker’s balls. Cullen’s turned him into a besotted simpering fool. Before long he’ll be writing poetry about his eyebrows.

For the first three days a near-nonstop flow of people come to visit, either to check on Cullen’s status or--in Elena’s case--to keep Dorian company. A surprisingly large amount of people that Dorian doesn’t know come with flowers; it would be a sad time indeed if either of the men were allergic with the amount of pollen contained in that one room. An even larger amount of people offer condolences to _Dorian_ and wish the Commander a speedy recovery for _both their sakes_. The honesty in the words, said by so many people who treated him like a leper when he first arrived, knocks him off balance.

And although their words are a comfort (no matter how disarming they are), Dorian is grateful when, by the fifth day, the flood of people turns to a trickle. By day seven the only one who stops in is Elena, and that’s only to ask Dorian if he’d like a spot in another dragon hunting party. As if killing one isn’t enough.

“Come on, you could give Cullen one of the horns as a gift,” she says as she tries, and fails, to tug a book out of his hands. He recoils, drawing into himself, trying to hide arms and legs so she can’t try to drag him bodily out of the room. He wouldn’t put it past her.

“No, _you_ could give _Bull_ one of the horns as a gift and then watch as he masturbates with it.” Dorian bats away Elena’s attempts to swat at him and considers her indignant squawk a sign of victory.

Suddenly she stops and pulls back, staring down at him with wide eyes. “He’d like that, you think?”

Dorian can’t help but roll his eyes. “Did you not see his reaction after killing the last one? We’re lucky he didn’t try to climb into the gaping hole we blasted into the side of the thing.”

There’s a little too much calculation in Elena’s answering laugh, and the smirk that pulls at Dorian’s lips makes her flush scarlet. She coughs into her fist and shifts her weight from foot to foot. “ _In any case_ ,” here she nudges Dorian with her boot, “I doubt Cullen would want you to stay cooped up in here.”

A thought that Dorian’s had time and time again in the last week, but even so he hasn’t left. “I’ll be sure to ask him his opinion when he wakes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long--it took an insane amount of effort to get this down despite having the scenes in my head for the last week.
> 
> And sorry its so short ; n; pls dont eat me


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i apologize in advance for your tears

Two weeks.

Two weeks of interrogating Theoren, fretting over Cullen’s prone form, biting at his nails until they’re down to the quick and even further, scabbed and sore. Pacing, sleeping only when exhaustion claims him, harassing the other healers for information.

And yet Cullen still sleeps.

It is no natural slumber, and they all know it. The issue at hand is that simply knowing that it is unnatural doesn’t suddenly reveal the cause, and blindly channeling magic into Cullen could do far more damage than good. At least that’s what Dorian tells himself as he gnaws at his thumb nail, ignoring the taste of blood as he bites. The pain is enough to keep him focussed, keep him from withdrawing into his mind and being trapped by an endless cycle of worst case scenarios.

Cullen’s wound is long healed enough to remove his stitches, and besides the one nightmare on his first day, he hasn’t moved an inch on his own. He’s been force fed only broth and water and yet hasn’t lost any weight. The healers who at first assumed he was simply recovering from the tremendous stress of being the commander of the Inquisition’s army now scramble for answers. Dozens of hands check books in the library, turning the place on its head, and even more send messages and missives to healers across the countryside who may have more information, though of course without letting on to _who_ it is they’re trying to heal.

Even now, the Inquisition comes first, and rumor of the Commander being unwell leaving Skyhold could be disasterous.

All the while Dorian remains at his side. While he may be a great researcher and experimentalist, his talents are tied to the arts of the dead and making things dead, not so much healing. He feels useless, a feeling he’s not used to in the least.

But it isn’t the healers that find the truth, nor is it located in any book. No, it’s Solas who figures it out, and by accident.

“It seems that, while in his weakened state, the Commander was ensnared by a demon.” The elf leans against his staff, voice bland like this isn’t a big deal, and Dorian would consider punching him if he wasn’t so close to panicking. The air’s been knocked out of his lungs and the room spins. He braces himself against the war table with both arms to help tether him to the ground. There's a buzzing in his ears, a white fuzz that threatens to drown out everything around him; he swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

Elena, the only other person present, frowns. “How is that possible?” She’s incredulous, as she should be, and Dorian would be too if it didn’t just make so much sense.

“He is not possessed,” Solas clarifies, “I have no doubt that Cullen is safe from that danger.” He shrugs nonchalantly--Dorian _hates_ him for it--and shifts his weight. “I suspect he slipped into the Fade while he slept after his injury, though I’m still unclear how he managed it.” The way he speaks, it’s like Solas will question Cullen the second he’s awake and harass him for information. “I was unable to get too close, however. The demon is extremely protective of its captive.”

Maker, Dorian can almost see it. The demon exploiting all the barely healed wounds on Cullen’s soul after his torture at Kirkwall, using his weaknesses to its advantage to sink its claws in and tear him apart after he’s spent _so long_ trying to piece himself back together.

He barely makes it out the door before emptying the contents of his stomach on the freshly renovated stone floor.

 

======

 

Dorian opens his eyes. Blinks.

He stands in a field of spring wheat, heads swaying in a gentle breeze at hip height. Everywhere he looks he sees it, a sea of gold that surrounds him on all sides. The sky above is a tableau of shifting colors, red, then green, then purple--a kaleidoscope of shades that bleed into one another seamlessly.

And there, on the horizon, is a black dot, made indiscernible by distance.

Somehow everything in that direction seems sharper, clearer, edges harder and colors brighter. And in the opposite direction color bleeds away, forms and shapes becoming indistinct in the way that things seen in peripheral are indistinct.

Dorian can tell he’s in the Fade, not by the fanciful sky display and optic tricks, but by how potent his magic feels, how deep his reservoir of mana has become. It coils under his skin, waiting to be released with nothing more than a thought to make it tangible. A mage learns quickly how to recognize the Fade else they end up an abomination.

Which is why Dorian shouldn’t be here alone. He hadn’t planned it, had only meant to sleep dreamlessly (if at all) by aid of a potion. He was supposed to come here with Elena and Solas in tow, three fully capable and powerful mages to break Cullen free of his prison.

But something had pulled him from his sleep and lead him here, and though the smart thing to do would be to wake up, he’s not feeling particularly smart. Especially when Cullen is so close. He's not sure how exactly he knows that the other man is close, but know it he does, deep in his bones.

Decision made, Dorian begins to walk towards the speck of black on the horizon, parting the sea of wheat before him with his hands. Wisps float through the air, attracted by his magical strength, drifting behind him like ripples.

Time passes, but Dorian has now way of keeping track of how much, or if it even correlates with time in the physical world. The flickering sky shows no sun, though the air is beginning to warm considerably. Even with his Tevinter blood the temperature brings a sheen of sweat to his skin, waves of heat shimmering above the wheat tops. But no matter how far he walks he doesn't get any closer; the tiny black dot in the distance remains a tiny black dot, though with each step the temperature rises until his lungs burn with each inhale, the air thick and cloying.

Dorian frowns and stops, wipes perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. An illusion of some sort, then, to protect the demon from intruders. Simple in its execution, yes, but still capable of keeping someone away.

Well, had this been the real world it would be capable of keeping someone away. But this is the Fade, and in the Fade thought becomes reality.

Dorian imagines himself standing closer to the dot, maybe a mile away for safety, and so he is. The world shifting disorients him for but a moment and he rights himself quickly. The air here is still warm but not oppressively so, and he's thankful. Air shouldn't burn on the way in like that, like boiling water in his throat.

It turns out that the black speck he'd spied is an old farm house, a single story thing made of aged pine. It's small but if what Dorian can see on the outside is any indication, it's been relatively well kept. Well, relatively well kept for something imagined. He knows it’s not a real home with any actual upkeep but the fact that it looks in good repair says something about whoever--or whatever--it is that brought it to life here.

Slowly, Dorian covers the last bit of distance, alert and ready for any sudden attack. It’s this alertness, this readiness of his magic just beneath the skin of his hands, that keeps him from losing his head as a blade is swung at his neck.

On instinct he throws up a barrier and the blade rebounds, giving him a chance to dance back. Spells just itching to be freed, he turns to face his attacker. Then stops and gapes.

Cullen stands with his blade drawn, a rictus snarl twisting his face into something Dorian’s never seen before. Dorian would feel relief at finding him unharmed if it weren’t for the bared steel focussed on him. Cullen’s eyes stare at him without recognition, dull and black with blown pupils.

“Cullen, what--” Dorian dodges back again, wishing for his staff and, as it materializes in his hand, uses it to block another swing.

“I won’t let you have him, demon!” Cullen stabs at him in quick succession; Dorian deflects and parries the blows but doesn’t return the attack. How could he? It’s clear that Cullen is not in his right mind, which is not surprising considering the circumstances, and it is not Cullen that he needs to defeat, but the demon.

Cullen presses forward and Dorian continues to dance around him and they circle back and forth, twisting and jumping. There’s no way for Dorian to disengage without being fatally wounded, so he turns to his magic.

“Stop this!” Dorian yells, pushing Cullen back a good thirty feet with a gust of air. He lands on his back near the house’s porch but scrambles to his feet as if he hadn’t been thrown through the air like a ragdoll. More defensive spells lay half-cast in Dorian’s hands, various tactics whirling through his mind as he not only tries to keep himself alive but also think of a way to snap the Commander out of this.

“Now, now, don’t try to dissuade him,” a voice says from inside, a voice so familiar that he instantly knows what the demon is playing at before it walks out from the shadows of the doorway into the light.

A _thing_ wearing Dorian’s face stares down at him from the porch with contempt, and the likeness would be perfect if it weren’t tainted with something so _wrong_ and _twisted_ , the way the light reflects in its eyes, the cant of its head, the way it smiles. It’s a smile so oily that Dorian’s skin crawls just to look at it.

The demon saunters down the porch steps. “He is quite protective of me, but I think you’ve realized that.” It winks at Dorian and sidles up behind Cullen, leaning its chest against his back and wrapping arms around his waist. Cullen shifts in its arms unconsciously and the demon rests its chin on his shoulder, peering at Dorian over the fur of Cullen’s cloak. It’s a pose the two had been in multiple times, while overlooking the mountainside or in the early morning as Cullen tried to get ready to train his troops and Dorian did everything he could to distract him.

Dorian’s hands tighten on his staff, knuckles white as his hackles rise. Now, faced with much more than he thought this would be, he wishes he would have simply woken up as soon as he realized where he was and went to the Inquisitor and Solas for aide instead of assuming he could do this on his own. Facing a demon? He can do that with his eyes closed and hands tied behind his back, and has been ever since he begun to tap into his magic as a child. But facing Cullen, the one truly good thing in his life, as he attempts to run him through?

The demon grins and gives Cullen’s hip a pat. “Go get him, amatus.”

And Cullen charges. Every swing is precise, every parry and slice of the blade aimed for Dorian’s vitals. How can he think of a way of freeing him when he’s barely keeping Cullen’s sword from disemboweling him? Especially when dying here would kill Dorian or, even worse, make him Tranquil?

In the back of his mind Dorian thanks his parents for being smart enough to teach him _true_ combat skills with his staff, training him to use it as more than just a conduit for his power. The hours of quarterstaff work is certainly coming in handy.

All the while, Cullen is talking, spitting out words between grit teeth. “You cannot have him!” Swing. “I won’t let anyone hurt him anymore!” Stab. The words hit Dorian more than the blows that slip through his defenses; tears gather at the corners of his eyes but he blinks them away.

A desire demon, then, using Cullen’s desire to protect Dorian from his family and the hateful world at large and twisting it into an obsession he’s willing to kill for. Desire demons aren’t particularly strong but there’s no way to kill the thing without finding a way to incapacitate or at least distract Cullen long enough to get the job done.

Sweat burns in a dozen cuts, drips from his forehead, slicks his hands on his staff as he defends himself. Cullen continues to press forward, forcing Dorian back, away from the house and the desire demon wearing his face.

Dorian takes another step back, and his heel slips on something. That one moment of dropping his guard as he fights for his balance is what undoes him as the pommel of Cullen’s blade slams into his nose.

Bone cracks and blood flows freely from his nostrils and down into his throat as spots cloud his vision. Stumbling he takes another step back, throwing up a barrier out of desperation as tears blur his vision, but it's not fast enough. Cullen's fist connects with his jaw and, Maker, does it hurt. Dorian's head swims as his legs buckle, knees slamming into the ground. He’s pretty sure he’s concussed, and badly, if the pain blooming in the back of his skull is any indication. Blood drips down his face, pools in his mouth.

Through the tears streaming down his face he can see Cullen looming over him, chest heaving with exertion. The demon stands behind him, a hand on his shoulder. It stares down at Dorian with triumph, smirking. Dorian still has magic to use, still has a deep well of mana to pull from, but he just can’t. His brain is panicking and there’s no way for him to focus himself enough to cast anything worthwhile.

But is this really a bad way to die? No, no really. Dorian could have died so many times since coming south, but there’s something poetic about dying at the hands of the person he loves. The person who gave his life new meaning, who helped him learn to love himself again and ignore the voice in his head that always works to bring him down. The person who Dorian could see himself growing old with, the person Dorian could see himself making a family with.

And if he doesn’t die but instead is made Tranquil, he at least knows that he got the chance to experience such a wide breadth of emotion, got to feel love and happiness before having it all stripped away.

Cullen raises his blade and Dorian is at peace. Smiling, he leans back and bares his neck, staring up at the shifting sky above.

A beautiful last sight, if he is any judge of these things.

The blade swings.

An inhuman screech fills the air and Dorian starts, snapping his head down to find Cullen’s blade embedded in the demon’s side, sliced halfway through its middle. It no longer wears his face as it screams in pain and fury, fumbling with clawed hands to pull the sword free. With a shout, Cullen twists the blade and _rips_ , cutting through the rest of the way and splitting the demon in two.

The two separate pieces fall to the ground with a wet thunk, its blood steaming on the ground, on Cullen’s sword.

It takes a moment for it to register in Dorian’s mind, but when it does he gurgles a laugh. “I guess that’s that, then,” he coughs out before blackness consumes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @ esstiel


	8. Chapter 8

Dorian wakes to warm hands lifting his chin, calloused fingers caressing his cheeks. His sight swims, eyes refusing to focus as he blinks through the tears that still trail down his cheeks. Everything seems too bright, to vivid, and he squints against the light of the single candle in the room. Blood sits thick in his mouth, coating his tongue and he coughs weakly, wincing as lacerations in his skin twist as his skin moves. Tendrils of the Fade still wrap around his mind, pulling away slowly as his mental fog clears.

He knows whose hands touch him, hold him, and yet he refuses to look. A conversation waits there, a conversation that he’s terrified to have. So instead he straightens and pulls away from those loving hands; he bites back a groan as his back and joints protest the way he’d fallen asleep doubled over with his face pressed into Cullen’s bed, while his neck and head throb with the pain of being punched in the face. Dried blood that crusted under his nose flakes away as he frowns. His tongue twists in his mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to wash down the coppery taste stuck to his teeth.

“Dorian.”

The tears finally slow, though they still roll down to burn in the cuts and scrapes littering his face. He feels used up, empty, his mana completely depleted. The leather of his clothing sticks to his clammy skin; he coughs again, tries to clear the lump that’s beginning to form in his throat.

“ _Dorian_.”

The voice is so loud, so painful in his ears that it sends his world tilting for a second. It tilts enough to shake out the thoughts swimming in his mind. Words tumble unbidden from his lips. “How did you know?”

The silence that answers him makes him finally look at Cullen, at the beard that’s grown in his weeks of sleep, the heavy bags under his eyes, the creases in his face that weren’t there a mere two months ago. His eyebrows are drawn together in confusion, eyes still slightly glazed from his sudden awakening.

Dorian grimaces. He doesn’t want to elaborate, doesn’t want to _think about what just happened_ but he can’t get the questions out of his head. He has to know, has to understand how he’s sitting here alive and (relatively) well, with nothing more than a broken nose and bruises and cuts to show just how close to oblivion he was.

Cullen meets his gaze and Dorian’s eyes skip away, looking at a spot to the right of his head. His jaw is clenched and he has to coax himself into relaxing his mouth enough to ask again, “How did you know it was me?”

Even without looking at him dead-on, the understanding that blooms on Cullen’s face is clear as day, yet he doesn’t answer straight away. A myriad of emotions flash across his face, too quick for Dorian to pick out, as he thinks, eyes glancing down at his hands. There’s bruising on his knuckles, the skin swollen and rubbed raw. Cullen flexes his hands, winces in pain, but still offers no response.

Dorian leans back in his seat, unsure of how to feel. Disappointed at not getting a response, yes, but other than that? Everything is too muddled in his brain, too twisted from the Fade, to make much sense right now. He sighs and scrapes some of the dried blood from his mustache, lets his eyes drift closed in exhaustion.

“...You trusted me.”

His eyes snap open and straight to Cullen, though the other man is staring at his palms, slowly closing his hands into fists then relaxing them. The words hang in the air; Dorian realizes he’s holding his breath and exhales slowly.

“Of course I trust you,” Dorian says slowly, but Cullen’s frowning and shaking his head.

“No, you trusted me _then_ , with a sword swinging at your head.” Cullen takes a deep breath then releases it, shoulders sagging. “Not once did you attack me, though you had plenty opportunity, as well as cause.”

Dorian’s eyebrows twitch upwards. Didn’t attack him? “I threw you nearly thirty feet,” he points out.

“In self-defense,” Cullen counters. “And when you were bested… when I hurt you…” He trails off to a whisper, one hand rubbing at the knuckles of the other idly as he stares off. Dorian can tell Cullen’s trying to think of the right words to say and stays silent to give the other man the time and space to work his way through his thoughts.

Dorian gives his nose an experimental touch then snatches his hand back with grimace. Definitely broken, and beyond his healing capabilities. A drop of blood drips from his nose into his lap. He wipes the tip of his nose with a delicate swipe of his fingertip, though even that is enough to send pain shooting into his skull.

He looks up to see Cullen holding out a small white cloth with a wane smile. Dorian takes it with a small ‘thank you’ and holds it to his nose as blood runs anew from the damaged tissue.

“Sorry about that,” Cullen apologizes, gesturing vaguely towards Dorian’s face.

“Considering the alternative was beheading, I’m fine with a broken nose,” Dorian replies without thinking. As soon as the words leave his tongue he’s cursing himself for his glibness. The way Cullen’s face goes blank makes the bottom of his stomach drop out and he leans forward, ready to apologize for his off-handed remark. But Cullen holds up his hand to stop him and shakes his head, and Dorian closes his mouth with a frown.

“No, you’re right.” Cullen sighs and tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “I could have done far worse to you, Dorian, and there’s no excuse for that.”

“You _could_ have done far worse, true, but you didn’t.” A thrall to a demon, Cullen should have lopped off his head without a second thought, but something had stopped him. And Cullen’s mention of trust doesn’t make sense. What does trust have to do with Dorian still having his head on his shoulders? “And I’m fairly certain the demon is a perfectly reasonable excuse for my injuries.”

Whatever response Cullen has for that is lost when Elena bursts into the room with Solas in tow, face a thundercloud. “You. Went. In. Alone?” she bellows. Dorian throws his hands up and leans back as she stalks towards him, shaking a fist in his face.

“It isn’t as if I did it on purpose!” Dorian ducks down, barely avoiding being cuffed in the ear.

“You could have gotten the both of you killed, you bastard!” She swings again and manages to connect her open palm with the side of his head.

A string of Tevene curses spills from Dorian’s mouth and he covers his face with his arms. The hit isn’t painful compared to his other hurts, but it’s enough to make starbursts appear in his vision and he sways in his seat, a headache exploding in his skull. A wave of nausea overtakes him, bile rising in his throat. Something cushions his fall as the world tumbles around him and he loses his seat, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Someone’s saying something, he can _hear_ them talking, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t understand the words - they could be gibberish for all he knows. Something cold presses against his forehead and he only realizes belatedly that it’s an unfamiliar hand when Solas suddenly comes into view, his face massive in his vision. Instinct tells him to lean back but making his body do what he wants it to is beyond his current capabilities. No matter how Dorian tries to pull away from the egg-headed insufferable man, his body refuses to respond.

Somewhere in the back of his addled mind, Dorian can feel Solas draw on the Fade. Nearly three decades of training screams at him to _get away_ , he’s using magic on him _without his permission_ , he’s incapable of protecting himself and who knows what the elf plans to do to him.

(Somewhere else in the back of his mind, Dorian realizes this isn’t a rational line of thought, but rational thinking isn’t something that’s happening for him right now).

And then Solas is pouring magic into his head and his skull is filled to the brim with warmth. Dorian’s nose is filled with the smell of mint and petrichor and the rapid shift from disorder to lucidity punches the air out of his lungs. A headache still lurks but the general pain in his face is all but a distant memory, his mind clear and senses working correctly.

“My apologies for the presumed consent, but you were suffering from a severe concussion and weren’t capable of responding to my questions.” Solas is on his knees on the floor in front of him, leaning back to give him space.

Dorian blinks, reorients himself, and takes a second to assess the situation. He’d fallen from his chair, that much is clear, but where he thought only one person caught him is actually two. Both Cullen and Elena have their arms around him, Elena’s face a picture of concern while Cullen has the look of someone coming down from sheer panic.

“Forgive me,” Cullen whispers fiercely, misery clear on his face. “This is all my fault, please -”

“No,” Elena interrupts, “this is what he gets for going into a dangerous situation without proper support.” Her words are hard but there’s no heat behind them, her worry overriding her earlier anger.

Dorian pulls a face and shoots a glare at her. “As I said before, I didn’t exactly _plan_ on doing anything. Falling asleep is not a crime, unless you’ve rewritten any _more_ laws of the land that I need to be aware of.”

They roll their eyes at each other while Cullen and Solas look on, though Cullen’s eyes are still dark with melancholy. The four of them work together to get off the floor with some semblance of dignity; Cullen needs Dorian’s support as he stands on shaky legs that haven’t been used in a good while. Once they’re all back on their feet, Solas takes his leave and Elena slips out to get Theoren so she can check on Cullen’s vitals and make sure he’s alright.

Dorian helps Cullen shuffle backwards until he’s sitting down on his bed. He goes to pull away but hesitates, lets his hands move from Cullen’s arms to his shoulders, brushing gently to his neck, cupping the back of his head and twisting his fingers in his wheat-colored hair. Cullen is warm - is always warm - and he lets himself sink into that heat, leaning forward and pressing Cullen’s head into his stomach. Cullen’s hands grip his hips, fingernails digging into the leather of his pants and biting at his skin. He hangs on like Dorian is his lifeline, as if he’s afraid that Dorian will simply disappear, evaporate into thin air.

Maker, but Dorian’s missed him. He leans forward and buries his nose into Cullen’s hair, breathing in that unmistakable woodsy scent that’s pure Cullen Stanton Rutherford. The woods and lakes are in his blood and it leaks from his skin to swaddle Dorian in comfort. Dorian never thought he’d find peace in such untamed lands, yet the rolling hills and active wildlife have seduced him as much as the Commander has.

This feels like home, more than Minrathous, more than the whole of Tevinter, has ever felt. Here, now, in Cullen’s arms, is where he wants to be for the rest of his life.

It’s a daunting realization, one to be left alone for now as Theoren enters the room and the two men separate so that she can conduct her tests.

A little over an hour later finds Dorian and Cullen curled up in his bed. Theoren had deemed him healthy enough considering all he’d been through, and had told Dorian he should “sleep in a bed for a change,” which he took to heart.

She never specified _which_ bed, after all, and though it’s a little smaller than his tastes, there’s enough room for the two of them to lay side by side with relative comfort.

They do so now, curled facing towards each other, legs tangled under the blankets. Cullen’s changed into something more comfortable than an infirmary gown, and Dorian’s all but stripped naked, wearing only his small clothes after wiping away the remaining blood crusted to his skin. Cullen’s eyes linger on his exposed torso for a moment, though as tired as he is the look is without heat, before meeting Dorian's, and he smiles at him.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” Dorian states, and the small smile that curls Cullen’s lips is enough to make his own widen into a grin. “It feels like it’s been a year since we’ve properly shared a bed, let alone had a conversation.”

Cullen’s chuckle rumbles through the mattress, felt more than heard. “You could have been sharing a bed with me the entire time I slept,” he notes, one hand reaching to touch his forearm, tracing circles and patterns on his skin with the tips of his fingers. The touch is feather light, and Dorian’s skin breaks out into gooseflesh at the contact. Were they both in better condition, this would dissolve into a frenzy of sexual escapades, but neither of them are even close to being well enough for more than a kiss or two. Even with Solas’s impromptu healing, Dorian’s brain feels too big for his skull and his body is weak, and Cullen…

Darkness lingers in his eyes, haunted by whatever the demon had done to him before Dorian had arrived. Dorian knows from experience that some hurts take more time to process than others, and knows that Cullen will speak about it if he needs to and not a moment sooner, so he doesn’t press him for information.

“Share a bed with you while you were injured?” Dorian clutches a hand to his chest in mock-incredulity. “Take advantage of your injured state? As if Theoren would have let me survive such an attempt.”

Cullen laughs then, a real laugh that makes him close his eyes and do that little inhale-snort that’s so ridiculous yet so endearing. “If she’s anything like she was twenty years ago, you wouldn’t survive even the _thought_.” He laughs more, clearly enjoying the image he’s conjured in his mind, and Dorian…

Emotions overtake him as the reality of just how close he was to never having this again hits him. Never sharing a bed, sharing the same space, breathing the same air. His thoughts must show on his face because suddenly Cullen’s hands are cupping his face, pulling him closer until he can press their foreheads together. “Shh, love,” he soothes, thumbs wiping away the tears that crest his lower lashes and make it to his cheeks.

All the worries and fears that were left to simmer for the last two months finally boil over and a sob rips free from Dorian’s throat as he buries his face into the crook of Cullen’s neck and finally releases all of his pent up emotion. Cullen’s arms wrap around him, pull him in tight, as he whispers to calm him, “I’m here, it’s okay, we’re alright.”

“You could have _died_.” The words hurt, the reality of it _hurts,_ and he empties himself of his pain into Cullen’s arms, soaks his shift with his tears. After a few minutes, though, he runs dry. His shoulders stop their shaking, his tears stop, he begins to breathe normally again. Cullen peppers the top of his head with kisses, palms rubbing soothing circles in the small of his back. Silence fills the room, broken only by their breathing. It reigns for so long that Dorian wonders if Cullen has fallen asleep. He shifts, but Cullen’s arms tighten, holding him in place.

“You asked how I knew it was you,” Cullen whispers, and Dorian stills. “I don’t know for certain, and probably never will, but in that moment, as you bared your neck to my blade, you trusted me to make the right choice. You trusted me to rise above the demon’s manipulation, to be _better_ than what it tried to make me. I have been at the mercy of demons -” his breath hitches, and Dorian presses a kiss to his collarbone “- before, and yet knowing what they turned me into, you put your life in my hands and trusted that I wouldn’t throw it away. _Nobody else_ trusts me like that, _loves_ me enough to.”

The admission leaves Dorian speechless so he responds the only way he can think of, and captures Cullen’s lips in a slow kiss, one that he pours all his love and adoration into, hoping that his tongue against Cullen’s can convey his feelings better than words can.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments seriously make me so fucking happy  
> follow me @ esstiel on tumblr


	9. Chapter 9

Time is, ultimately, man’s enemy.

Laying here in Cullen’s bed as the late morning sun bathes him in its warm glow through the hole in the roof, Dorian can’t help but think he finally understands why Alexius became so obsessed with time control.

Dorian flexes his outstretched hand, flung across Cullen’s side of the bed, long cold. The Commander of the inquisition’s armies has no time for sleeping in, not now, not with the date of their final push looming ever nearer. No matter how much he may wish, the seconds continue to tick by.

He feels it like he feels his heartbeat, like he feels his pulse in his neck and hears it pound in his ears. One more second closer to the final confrontation. One more heartbeat closer to what could be the end of everything he now holds dear. The possibilities are terrifying and leave him paralyzed in bed, staring up at the cobwebs between the rafters holding what’s left of the roof above his head.

_Eight days_ , he thinks, breathing deep and slow. _Eight days until we toss the dice._

The thought chills him and he shivers, pulling the covers over his head and curling into himself. So many things can go wrong, so many of their plans could unravel in their hands and bring destruction down upon their heads. How many would die in this final attempt to kill Corypheus and seal the breach? How many lives cut short, how many orphaned children, widowed spouses? Elena, Varric, Cassandra, Bull, _Cullen_ -

No, no, don’t think about it. Don’t contemplate it, don’t even entertain the thought. Dorian has to swallow hard to force down the lump that’s formed in his throat, squeeze his eyes tight against the tears that prick at their corners.

His heart beats; the seconds tick.

Its hours later that Dorian wakes, the edge of the bed dipping enough to pull him from his drowsy slumber. A headache pounds behind his eyes and in the back of his head and he groans, pushing his face further into his pillow.

A hand comes to rest on his head, fingers gently tangling in the hair on the back of his head, fingertips slowly massaging his scalp. The touch is enough to sooth some of the ache in his skull and he relaxes his body slowly. Dorian needn’t open his eyes to see who it is, he knows these hands better than he knows his own, and he can’t help but push his head back into Cullen’s hand, forcing a bit more pressure to relieve his pain.

“Headache?” Cullen asks, his hand traveling lower to rub at the base of his skull, pushing into the tender flesh where head and neck connect. The only reply he gets is a groan and he chuckles. His lips press against Dorian’s neck, feather light. “Probably because you slept too much.”

“Sleeping is preferable to thinking,” Dorian grumbles, and Cullen hums his agreement. With another groan Dorian finally rolls over to face Cullen and opens his eyes. He winces against the sunlight coming in through the window, his headache spiking. A hiss escapes his lips, and Cullen is pushing a vial of elfroot extract into his hand before he can turn away and bury himself under the blankets again. He pops the cork and dumps its contents into his mouth, swallowing it down hungrily despite the strong flavor. It’s a mere seconds wait for it to take effect and once it does Dorian sighs and sits up, rubbing at his eyes and face. Maker, he doesn’t want to be awake. He doesn’t want to face reality, doesn’t want to come to terms with the mortality of every person he loves.

He lowers his hands and looks at Cullen, who regards him quietly with an unreadable expression.

“What is it?” Dorian asks, fearful that Cullen comes with more news, more plans, more things to fall apart. But he doesn’t say what it is, instead standing from the bed and offering a hand to help Dorian to his feet.

“There is something I wish to show you before…” He swallows, his eyes dart to the side before returning to Dorian’s face. “Well, I have something to show you.”

With a statement like that, Dorian isn’t sure what to expect. But what he isn’t expecting is for Cullen to take him to the stable and saddle two mounts, and certainly isn’t expecting them to ride out of Skyhold down the mountainside towards the Hinterlands. Luckily Cullen had been kind enough to tell him to dress with an extra layer else the chill in the woods would have had Dorian shivering by now.

Even now, as they ride through trees and undergrowth, Dorian’s heartbeat counts the seconds as they tick by. The eighth day is more than two-thirds gone, leaving only seven more until they march.

_Focus, Dorian._

He turns his attention to the passing trees, the fog that curls between the trunks as the sun finally penetrates the leaves above and heats the cool air beneath. It’s serene, even with the squawking birds and the snuffling nugs, and it does much to calm his nerves and soothe his frayed mind. Looking around also does well to remind him what it is he loves about the south, these wide expanses of nature barely tainted by human hands, places where a person could build a small home and leave the rest of the world behind with little fear of discovery.

Now, as more heartbeats pass him by, Dorian sees the appeal of living off the grid, hiding amongst the trees and living a simple life where the world’s survival is a concern for someone bigger, someone greater.

His body sways gently with each step his mount takes and it lulls him into a gray sort of haze, the sort of haze where everything is bright but indistinct, where the only thing he really registers is Cullen’s swaying back in front of him. They ride for hours like that, Cullen leading Dorian to who knows where. Their pace is relaxed, almost lazy, and Dorian wonders just where it is that Cullen’s taking him.

Its a few hours later when Cullen comes to a stop, and Dorian guides his horse up beside his. Before them is a lake, whose surface looks like fire as the evening sun filters through the trees. Near them is a small boathouse with a dock jutting out over the water, and it’s this that Cullen walks towards after dismounting, and Dorian follows.

Besides the sounds of wildlife in the distance and the chittering of insects, it’s quiet, and fills Dorian with a sense of peace he hasn’t had since Adamant. He takes a moment to breathe it all in, to let it fill his lungs and soak into his blood, and on his exhales out tensions he didn’t know he was carrying.

Cullen’s already at the edge of the dock, tugging his boots off and rolling up the legs of his trousers. Dorian watches with amusement as he sits and lets his feet dip into the water.

“No nasties to nibble at your little feetsies?” he asks, leaving his mount besides Cullen’s and joining him on the dock, though he stands beside him instead of sitting. A small smile creeps onto his face when Cullen looks up at him and grins.

“What, afraid of losing your toes?” Cullen counters, nudging at Dorian’s leg with his shoulder. “There’s nothing in here big enough to hurt.” Cullen pauses, his brows furrow. “Last time I checked, at least.”

Dorian snorts but ultimately decides to humor Cullen in this and join him. He slips off his boots and socks before sitting down beside the other man, carefully sinking his feet into the opaque waters. He can’t help but flinch at how cold the water is but it doesn’t take long for him to adjust to the temperature difference, and soon he finds the flow of water between his toes and around his ankles relaxing. With a hum he wiggles his toes and leans back on his hands, tips his head back and closes his eyes.

This is… nice. Calm. Separated from the pressures and responsibilities of life. A respite from his ever growing anxieties. Seconds tick by but he doesn’t take the time to count them, instead letting them flow like the faint currents wrapping around his ankles.

“Do you like it?” Cullen asks suddenly, and Dorian glances at him as he contemplates his answer. Cullen looks eager, hopeful.

“I do,” he states simply, but he wants to know more. “How did you find this place?”

“I came here often as a child to escape my siblings - mostly my sisters.” Cullen stares off into the distance with a fond smile as he speaks as he recalls those childhood days, and Dorian can’t help but feel a little jealous that Cullen got to grow up with siblings, but doesn’t interrupt him as he speaks. It’s not often that Cullen talks of the past, and it’s even less often that the past he speaks of isn’t bathed in pain and blood.

“They liked to make fun of me for wanting to be a templar, especially since Mia was a fair bit stronger than me. She chased me with sticks whenever she had the chance, yelling ‘Templars don’t get beat up by their sisters!’” Cullen chuckles and Dorian does as well, amused by the mental image of a little Cullen fleeing from a stick-wielding little girl. It’s so wonderfully domestic, so normal and natural, without the trappings of the social ‘elite’. Dorian wants to know more, but doesn’t press for information.

Instead he says, “It sounds like it was a lovely time.”

“It really was.” Cullen sighs and kicks his feet, splashing water. “I haven’t been back here since the day I left for templar training, but I always think about it when it seems like everything is becoming too much. Sometimes it’s nice to get away from it all and remember what life is like when the world _isn’t_ burning.”

“As if the world ever stops burning,” Dorian jokes, nudging Cullen’s shoulder with his own; the Commander huffs a laugh and nudges him back before pressing his side against his, leaning against him and taking his hand in his. Instinctively their fingers lace together and Cullen regards their hands for a moment before speaking again.

“On my last day before being shipped off to the chantry, my brother gave me a coin. He said it was for luck, and wanted me to carry it so I would make it through templar training in one piece and lead a good life.” Cullen fishes into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out this coin he speaks of..

It’s a simple sovereign, worn smooth with age. Cullen’s thumb is already rubbing along the back of the coin, which tells Dorian just how it became so smooth. It’s clear that Cullen’s played with this coin often, probably in times of trouble as a tether to his family and loved ones.

Dorian can’t help but wonder why it is that Cullen’s telling him this, but Cullen answers that question for him before he need pose it.

“I know it’s silly, and I know this thing doesn’t really bring any luck, but…” He holds out the coin now, offering it to Dorian. “If you would indulge me and keep it for a while, at least until the final battle is over…” Cullen pauses, his gaze wandering away across the lake as his cheeks flush. “It would put me at ease.”

Dorian stares at the proffered coin in Cullen’s hand for a long moment before slowly lifting his free hand and taking it in his fingers. The coin is warm from where it’s been pressed against Cullen’s body, and feels just as smooth as it looks, and feels lighter than the normal sovereign. Just how much of the gold has been worn away by Cullen’s fingers? How often does he hold this coin in his hand, run his fingers along the edges, clutch it tightly in his fist until it leaves indents in his palm?

And Cullen is just going to offer it to him as if it has no real significance, as if it’s something to be passed around and not a precious thing from his childhood that carried him to this point. Dorian has nothing to give him in return, nothing to signify how much Cullen means to him in the same way that Cullen has.

The silence between the stretches as Dorian fumbles with his thoughts and emotions and Cullen stares resolutely out over the water. He opens his mouth once, twice, thrice, but no words form, and Cullen finally speaks to fill the void. “If you don’t want to take it -”

“No!” Dorian nearly shouts, closing his fingers around the coin, feeling it pinch at the tender flesh of his palm. “No, I want to keep it,” he says, slower and quieter, more to himself than to Cullen. “I just…”

The waning sunlight glints off his signet ring.

Ah.

Untangling his hand from Cullen’s, Dorian stores the lucky coin in a pocket before twisting his signet ring off of his middle finger. The crest of House Pavus stares up at him as he holds the ring in his fingers, twisting it slowly. “No matter what I do with this ring,” he starts, glancing at Cullen to make sure he has his attention, “It ends up coming back to me.” The most recent time with Elena’s intervention, yes, but that’s neither here nor there.

He holds out his free hand and wiggles his fingers with a soft smile until Cullen takes the hint and tentatively puts his hand in Dorian’s. He looks both confused and curious, and Dorian’s just as curious about what he’s about to do. None of this is planned, but…

It feels _right_.

Carefully, Dorian lifts Cullen’s middle finger and eases the ring onto the digit. It stops short at the second knuckle, too small to go further. Dorian frowns and mutters under his breath before trying the index finger, but comes to the same result. How are Cullen’s fingers so thick compared to his when they look to be the same size?

“Fasta vass,” he hisses and Cullen chuckles at his annoyance. “Hush you,” he snaps, but it’s without heat as he tries Cullen’s third finger. Thankfully the ring slips over his knuckle with little resistance, and fits snug enough that it won’t wiggle off without a little effort. Satisfied, Dorian rubs circles into Cullen’s palm with his thumb and admires how nice his ring looks on his finger.

“I’m expecting this back at some point, mind you.” Dorian watches Cullen’s face to see his reaction. The smile that blooms on Cullen’s face as he looks down at his hand fills Dorian with warmth, from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes still submerged in the cool lake water. He leans in close and whispers conspiratorially, “Perhaps if you’re good, I’ll get you one of your own. But only if you bring this one back to me.”

Cullen laughs and wraps his arms around Dorian, pulling him in so close he may as well be sitting in his lap. Dorian relaxes into Cullen’s embrace, tucking himself into Cullen’s side so neatly they may as well be one person. They sit like that as the sun sets, Dorian rubbing the coin between his fingers, Cullen twisting the ring on his finger. It isn’t until the moon begins to rise that they separate, putting their boots back on and returning to Skyhold with their tokens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter left, friends! the story is coming to an end :( i know i know, very sad, but all things end eventually  
> the last chapter will probably take me a while - i want it to be as close to perfect as humanly possible
> 
> comments make me squeal   
> follow me on tumblr @ esstiel


	10. Chapter 10

Cullen’s coin rolls over his knuckles, back and forth and back and forth, gold catching in the flickering candlelight in Elena’s tent just outside the Valley of Sacred Ashes. A parlor trick Dorian taught himself on the march to their (hopefully) final confrontation with Corypheus. He worked on the skill while on horseback as they stomped through the Ferelden countryside, in the tent he shared with Vivienne when the reality of what’s to come chased away desperately needed sleep, as he ticked down the days, then hours until their final assault.

Even as Elena rehashes the orders for her inner circle gathered in her tent, makes sure they all know what they will do and where they will be, Dorian has that coin twisting between his fingers.

“Are you paying attention?” Elena has her hands on her hips, the near constant worry in her eyes turning to annoyance as she stares at him.

The coin slides too far as his head snaps up, slips across the back of his hand to _clink_ onto the ground. His eyes follow the coin as it rolls a few feet away, and only when it stills does Dorian meet Elena’s eyes. Beneath the bland look that feels plastered to his face he feels skittish; he can feel the weight of everyone’s gaze as Elena draws attention to him pressing him into the floor.

But is that what he feels? Or is it the eyes of the spectre of death watching them all that settles so heavily on his shoulders like a cloak made of iron?

Dorian bends down to collect the coin from the dirt masquerading as a tent floor. “Of course, darling Elena,” he says, the words leaving his lips by rote as he straightens. With the coin in hand he feels… grounded, he supposes. Like, no matter what may come, things will turn out for the better in the end.

He’s smart enough to know it’s all in his head, that this coin he grips so tightly in his fist offers as much protection as a potato sack, and yet he grips it all the tighter. Somewhere in the back of his mind Dorian wonders if Cullen is doing the same with his ring, fist so tight that the edges of the ring cut into his skin, a solitary tether to hope for the future.

Elena stares at him hard but he does not flinch, does not shrink, and after a long pause she returns to giving orders that she’s given five times in the last twenty four hours. The coin begins to roll across his knuckles again but she doesn’t comment with anything but a twitch of her brows.

 

 

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There’s something about the release of anxiety and fear that’s absolutely exhausting. It’s what weighs Dorian’s eyelids as he stands at a table in Skyhold’s main hall, a cup of wine in one hand as he pretends to listen to an unrecognisable noble from Orlais coo and gush over his part in Corypheus’s downfall. The fact that this woman - along with many of the others gathered today - were just weeks ago treating him like Mabari shit on the bottoms of their pretty little shoes hasn’t gone unnoticed, but Dorian knows well enough to let them play their game for now.

Wouldn’t do to cause some sort of diplomatic calamity and ruin all the festivities.

Even as the woman talks and he gives his "hmm"s and "uh huh"s and "go on"s, his eyes search the crowds of mingling people, looking for that unmistakable cloak amidst the lace and petticoats. Sometimes he thinks he catches a flash of red and black but it always resolves into another dress, another coat, another feathered fan fluttering in front of someone's face in their ridiculous attempt at coyness. The rest of the inhabitants of Skyhold seem to be enjoying the extra attention, taking advantage of these social vultures going out of their way to appease them. Only Sera, Bull and Blackwall are missing it seems, though they're undoubtedly in the tavern, enjoying the company of people who weren't trained at birth to look down their noses.

For a moment Dorian wonders if Cullen escaped to the tavern as well. It wouldn't surprise him - Cullen never was one for nuance and double talk, even now after spending so much time in Dorian's company. But in that moment it's as if the crowds have parted like clouds to reveal Cullen, the sun. Even from across the hall Dorian is warmed by the sight of him.

Quarry found, Dorian finishes his drink and bids the talkative Orlesian adieu, leaving his cup on the table as he beelines for Cullen.

Cullen must sense him coming because he looks up from his conversation with Josephine and when their eyes meet it's like electricity in the air, coursing through Dorian's veins. Words float through Dorian's mind and he's sure Cullen is thinking the same as he approaches.

_We made it out alive._

This is not the first they’ve seen of each other since the final battle, but it is the first they’ve seen of each other where one of them isn’t pulled away by duty and post-war clean up. For a moment it looks as if Josephine is going to try to keep Cullen’s attention - whatever they’re talking about is surely important - but when she turns her head and sees just who it is that has drawn Cullen’s eye, she flashes a smile at the two of them and moves off to converse with someone else.

Dorian crowds up into Cullen’s space once he’s close enough to do so, breathes in deep the scent of him. It’s like coming home to a cabin deep in the woods, one built just for him. Cullen’s hand comes to rest on his hip, fingertips rubbing circles into the leather of his top.

“And here I thought you’d run off to hide from all the lords and ladies,” Dorian says, taking the bite off his words with a soft smile.

“Truthfully, I did _try_ , but Elena threatened to shave me bald,” Cullen replies, and Dorian can’t help but laugh at the idea of a bald Cullen.

“A good thing you didn’t flee then. I’d be quite put out if you lost all this lovely hair.” Dorian’s hand comes up to touch Cullen’s hairline right by his right ear, fingers ghosting over the skin before he lets his hand fall. It’s enough of a touch to bring a flush to Cullen’s cheeks; the hand on Dorian’s hip tightens its grip.

Dorian tilts his head. “Perhaps I can steal you away later for our own festivities. Elena can’t go through with her threat if _I’m_ the one to drag you off.” His hand comes up to tangle in the fur mantle of Cullen’s cloak, tugging the man ever closer. Here, in this moment, the exhaustion he felt scant minutes before is chased away by desire to drown himself in Cullen, in the reality of their survival. The need overrides his wariness of any sort of public affection, of having eyes on him while he’s being close with the other man. It still itches there in the back of his mind, that fear of being seen, but not enough to deter him.

Cullen must sense his mood, though, truth be told he’d have to be daft to miss it. The smile on his face slips into a smirk, his lips pulled up on one side by the scar cutting into them. His hooded gaze sends shivers down Dorian’s spine and he drowns in those ochre eyes that darken with thinly veiled heat. Were they in a more secluded area Dorian would be dragging Cullen to his quarters, but it will take a bit of extraction to remove themselves from the festivities without alerting everyone to what they’re galavanting off to do.

Laughter from across the hall cuts through the heated silence between them, and Cullen looks up towards the source of the noise by instinct. Dorian uses the distraction to snag the last cup of wine from a passing serving girl’s tray; she blushes and curtsies deeply, the gratitude on her face plain as day. It makes him a little uncomfortable, all this adoration and thankfulness. Not that it’s the first time he’s experienced it, not in the least. The longer he spent with the Inquisition, the more commendation he received, his Tevinter blood a footnote to his character rather than his defining feature. He gives the girl a nod and a friendly smile. She clutches her tray to her chest and bobs another curtsy before hurrying off into the crowd.

“Hard to get used to, isn’t it?”

Dorian returns his attention to Cullen, who is watching as the serving girl weaves her way through the mingling nobles and lords towards the kitchens. “Used to what?”

“The blind hero worship.” Cullen shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, free hand moving to rest on the pommel of a sword he isn’t wearing. His hand hangs awkwardly for a second before he lets it drop to his side, though the other remains on Dorian’s hip. “They should be down in the camps thanking the soldiers and mages, not here fluttering their eyelashes at us.”

“I enjoy their eyelash fluttering,” Dorian quips, flashing a smile at the exasperated look on Cullen’s face. “You downplay your role in our success far too often, amatus. Without your training they would have been children trying not to poke themselves with the sharp ends of their swords, and without your tactical skill, we would have all died months ago.”

Cullen’s brows furrow. “That may be true, but it wasn’t me that was in imminent danger during those battles.”

Dorian scoffs and swats at his arm. “Liar. I distinctly remember a dragon trying to bite your head off.” The terror he’d felt seeing those powerful jaws snap so close to Cullen had nearly done him, and the memory of it is enough to make his chest tighten. “Enough self-deprecation for now, hm? Let’s get away from here.” He leans in close, his mustache tickling at Cullen’s cheek. “Twenty minutes, my rooms.”

This close, Dorian can feel Cullen’s breath hitch at their proximity, at the promise in those words, and it’s enough to chase away his memories of the final battle to make room for more intimate thoughts.

It’s far easier for Dorian to slip away. Not only because he has the social skill to both greet people and escape their attempts to draw him into conversation, but because there’s still some infamy associated with him and it’s enough to make some hesitate, which gives him enough time to breeze by without interruption. Cullen isn’t so lucky, pounced upon as soon as Dorian leaves his side. Dorian would feel sympathy, but perhaps it’s time for Cullen to act as the lion everyone calls him and stop cowing before these simpering insipid aristocrats.

Free from any social constraints, Dorian makes his way from the hall toward his quarters. He'd be loathe to admit it, but there is a bit of a skip in his step. The end of the world didn't rain hellfire upon their heads, the people he cares for most are still alive and well - what more could he ask for?

Well, there's much more he could ask for, but he'll settle for being alive and well and surrounded by people who care for him.

He ends on that thought as he makes it to his rooms and simply walking through the threshold is enough to get the anticipation building in his blood, pulse pounding in his chest at the idea of finally having his commander to himself. Dorian works quickly to make his rooms more… romantic, he supposes. Making the bed, adding blankets, lighting some candles in strategic places instead of having his usual wisp of light affixed to the wall to light the room. He even goes so far as to lay out a few more rugs and furs on the floor to mask the cold stone underneath in even more warmth and decadence.

By the time Cullen knocks at his door, Dorian is stripped to all but his small clothes and laid out on the bed like a feast; Cullen’s eyes devour him the second he’s through the door. Dorian can’t help but shudder under the weight of his gaze, the sheer _desire_ that pins him to the bed as the Commander approaches slowly, shedding armor and clothing until nothing of the Commander is left except the man beneath the title.

Dorian shivers again, visible enough for Cullen to notice. “Cold?” he asks.

“Mm, a little. Come make me warm.” Dorian beckons with the crook of a finger and Cullen is all but happy to oblige him.

 

 

======

 

 

Dorian watches Cullen’s hands as he twists the signet ring Dorian gave him what seems like a lifetime ago on his middle finger. He’s caught him doing it before when his hands needed something to do, idle fingers searching for something to touch as his fought to keep his emotions in check. That ring has been his solace in this last year, when paperwork mounted, when skirmishes were fought and won. The fact that Cullen twists it now because of _Dorian_ breaks his heart.

“When do you leave?” Cullen asks, and Dorian tears his eyes away from Cullen’s hands to meet his stare. The pain there almost makes Dorian flinch but he stiffens his back against the inclination.

Dorian wets his lips, swallows down the lump that forms in his throat as the silence between them stretches. And that silence speak volumes; his ribcage feels like it’s going to crack under the pressure of that silence pushing down on his chest. He opens his mouth to speak and no words come on the first try, but on the second he manages to say it.

“Two weeks. Enough time for me to ensure I have the provisions for the trip.”

Andraste help him but it hurts to say the words, and his voice cracks like a child going through puberty.

Cullen’s nod is slow, his fingers twist Dorian’s ring.

There is little said between them for the rest of the day. They hide from each other, from the pain of what’s to come.

Dorian can’t help but feel bitter at Cullen’s reaction. Surely he knew this was coming? They may not have discussed it explicitly, but the _implication_ that he was going to return to Tevinter eventually was always there between them. He must know how important this is to him, how important it is that he returns home and works to make it a better place, a Tevinter to be proud of, a Tevinter capable of interacting with the rest of the civilized world without it coming to another war. The fact that Dorian, the pariah of house Pavus, has the chance to actually make a positive impact on his homeland… it’s more than he could ever hope for.

Cullen will just have to understand. No matter how much it hurts.

Only in the dead of night, in the safety of his own bed, does Dorian acknowledge just how much it hurts him, too.

He sleeps with Cullen’s coin clasped in his hand, the metal biting into his palm.

 

 

======

 

 

This here is the risk, Dorian thinks as he faces Cullen in the courtyard. His mount dances behind him, ready for the two-week ride awaiting them. Dorian should feel _something_ , anticipation, fear, worry… but he’s numb. There are no tears left to shed, no words left to say that haven’t been said a hundred times in the last two weeks.

This is what he gets for thinking that intimacy is a good thing. This pain, this black hole in his heart threatening to swallow the world, comes from believing that love could be something _good_ , that he shouldn’t avoid it but should welcome it with open arms until it drowns him. He stands here now, staring at his love personified, and remembers why he’s avoided this his entire life. And Maker help him but he wants to hit Cullen for being so accepting of this, for _letting him go_ , for being such an amazing, trusting man, a man who has been so deserving of his love and affections. How dare he be so understanding?

Dorian’s thoughts tangle and for a fraction of a second his calm facade cracks, his face crumbles. But Cullen is there, leather clad hands on his shoulders holding him upright as he threatens to fold in two. It’s enough to give Dorian time to collect himself and he breathes deeply through his nose, fills his lungs to bursting before sighing his exhale. After a long moment Dorian finds the strength to lift his head and nearly falls apart again at the look in Cullen’s eyes.

Cullen’s grip on his shoulders tighten; one hand slides up to cup the back of his head. “Until later,” Cullen says, and his voice is thick with his own emotions and it’s all Dorian can do to repeat those words back to him, those words that aren’t goodbye or farewell, but leave hope for them to meet again.

“Until later, Commander.”

 

======

 

 

Dorian sits at his desk in his study, windows thrown open to allow the cool breeze of winter into the room. Most are bundled in layers against the chill but Dorian? No, he’s fared far worse cold than this. It’s practically spring.

A headache is building behind his eyes, exhaustion weighing his eyelids every time he blinks. Every time he thinks he’s caught up on his work a servant brings in another stack of missives and letters and invites to parties and soirees, more things to respond to and collect information on.

He yawns, and his jaw cracks. It’s not even dinnertime and he’s already fighting to stay awake. There was a time he could work for days on end with little more than a power nap to get him through, but those days are long behind him, whisked away by the passage of time. Dorian stands and stretches, sighs with relief as bones realign and pop. The years have been kind to him, kinder than it has been on others, and yet even he can’t escape the signs of aging. Grey peppers his mustache and streaks his hair at the temples, and once tight skin has begun to sag. There are more lines in his face from stress than from laughter; he considers them battle lines, a line for each fight won in his eternal battle to right the wrongs of his homeland.

Much has been done since his return - slavery abolished, though it resulted in a few cities seceding from the Imperium, more rights for the Soporati, though not enough to balance out just how much power the Magisterium still wields. All of this was possible because of his ties to the Inquisition and Leliana’s masterful spywork, of course, but even with such clout it’s taken him nearly a decade to get this far.

Maker. It’s almost been ten years.

Dorian sighs and decides to leave his study, intent on finding something to eat and possibly something to drink before he falls asleep. He’s almost to the door when there’s a knock, and he crosses the rest of the way to answer it. Dorian finds a servant, little Lanya, on the other side of the threshold, and the girl drops a quick curtsey, flashing a smile at him that he returns readily. “You have a caller, ser,” she says.

Dorian quirks a brow. “Is that so? Were we expecting visitors?” He walks into the hallway, pulls the door to his study closed behind him.

“No, ser. We’ve put him in the gold room for the time being.” A faint blush dusts Lanya’s cheeks. “He’s quite handsome, ser.”

“Oh? We best see who this mystery man is, then.” It’s truly a sign of the times that Dorian can make such an undisguised comment about a man’s attractiveness with little worry for his reputation or well being.

Dorian beelines for the waiting room Lanya mentioned, the girl following behind him as they make their way through the halls. This place would be called a mansion in Ferelden, but here in Tevinter it’s considered a modest home, especially for someone with his last name and his connections. It still seems too much, after staying in Skyhold; the only reason Dorian even lives here is because it’s expected of him. It would much harder to be taken seriously in negotiations if he lived in anything smaller. Much as he’s changed, _that_ certainly won’t change in his lifetime.

Though he can’t help but wonder about this visitor as he walks. One doesn’t simply drop by someone’s residence without invitation or warning. A part of him worries that it’s another assassination attempt, but at this point in the game he doesn’t particularly care if someone makes another try at taking his life. With all the work he has left to do today, maybe he’ll let them succeed just to escape the piles of paper.

Soon enough the arrive at the gold room, and Lanya opens the door for him. “Lord Pavus,” she announces stepping back to allow him into the room. Dorian’s greeted by dark mahogany furniture gilded in gold, black and gold tapestries hanging from the walls depicting some of the greatest stories in history. Lush carpets line the floor, mosaics of blacks and reds and golds that intertwine into gorgeous patterns and designs. The east wall is lined with windows hiding behind gossamer swaths of gold fabric.

And standing at one of those windows is a man.

Dorian doesn’t need to see his face to know who he is, for his heart to know who he is. It’s enough to see him standing there, hands clasped behind his back, sun playing through his blond hair streaked with white.

His hand grabs at the coin hanging around his neck by instinct, and when the man turns and meets his eyes he can’t help but gasp.

“ _Amatus._ ”

Cullen smiles at him, a soft smile that’s both fond and forlorn. The years have changed him as much as they’ve changed Dorian, the wear and tear of battle evident in the wrinkles of his face and the fresh scar across his cheek. But they haven’t changed those eyes, those eyes that seem to see straight into Dorian’s soul.

“Dorian, its… good to see you.” Cullen swallows visibly. “So good to see you.”

There are words Dorian wants to say, words that sit on the tip of his tongue but he can’t force out of his mouth. So much is going on in his mind that it’s all he can do to cross the room and pull Cullen into his arms. For a moment, one terrifying moment, it’s as if Cullen will not return the embrace, but then his arms are wrapping around Dorian’s waist, pulling him flush against his body.

It’s like something’s been completed, two puzzle pieces that’ve finally found their match after being apart for _so long_ ; Dorian sinks into Cullen’s warmth, buries his nose in the man’s neck. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he blinks them away quickly, sniffling daintily.

There’s so much they need to talk about, so many questions left unasked and conversations left unfinished, but Dorian doesn’t want to begin that just yet. It will be painful, it will be difficult, and for now he just wants to enjoy them being in the same country for the first time in far too long. After a long while they pull apart, each searching for what to say, what to do.

A thought comes to Dorian’s mind and he smiles. “Would you like to play a game of chess?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thank you to everyone who's stuck it through til the end. It's been a joy writing this fic but BOY AM I GLAD ITS DONE. Time to move onto the next project.
> 
> Much love! <3


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